


Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip

by Precipice



Series: The Little Apartment Building series [2]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Because why the fuck not?, Gen, Humor, I REGRET NOTHING, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Precipice/pseuds/Precipice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sequel of 'The Little Apartment Building'. </p><p>In which the universe is a complete and utter mess and Wilbur Whateley tries to make the most of it before something kills him. </p><p>Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Wilbur

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Prologue**  
  
None of this should’ve happened.  
  
(Nonenonenone… ssssshhhhoulddd…)  
  
I shouldn’t’ve failed. Shouldn’t’ve died.   
  
At least… at least not like that – like a torn-up ragdoll  
  
(ichor ev’rywhere)  
  
cloth and buttons rendered useless, with the whippoorwills screaming outside and that d-dam-mned d-d-d-dog at m-my throat.  
  
***  
  
My brother… my twin… it should’ve survived. Should’ve bred. I should’ve been an uncle.   
  
(Heh.)  
  
We should’ve cleared all life off this planet – should’ve chased all the other gods away, shook them awake, sent ‘em running for their lives...   
  
Then invite the family over for dinner.   
  
Set up a place for father, from where he could continue his work undisturbed. Absolute stillness, absolute silence, blessed emptiness – the eye of the storm that was going to put this universe in order…    
  
***  
  
(Grandpa, look at me now!)  
  
Grandfather sacrificed so much for this... this vision he had. His daughter, his house, his rest…   
  
Don’t know why.   
  
He never told me. I never asked.   
  
We had so much to talk about, so much to do, and so little time…  
  
(Grandpa! Grandpa, look! Look what I can do!)  
  
Other wizards wish for immortality, power, knowledge. He wished for the end of his world.   
  
Grandfather was everything I’ve ever wanted to be.   
  
Everything I failed to be.  
  
(Grandpa, will ye tell me a story, please?)  
  
***  
  
I don’t  
  
(deserve to die)  
  
think I deserve a second chance.   
  
And yet I got it.  
  
***  
  
 **Something happened in the Court of Azathoth – the center and the heart, the source of every creation and every destruction, just beyond the edge of the Dreamlands, where madness is revealed to be the only truth...**  
  
… or so my father says.  
  
 **Something that was not from this universe…**  
  
… in other words, something that had been kidnapped, smuggled, enslaved…  
  
 **… startled the Blind Idiot God.**  
  
Father told me what happened. Didn’t explain why or how. Sometimes I think that he knows all and sees all but doesn’t understand all.   
  
I know, I know, blasphemy and all that jazz. He’s my dad. I’m allowed to say such things.  
  
 **Azathoth was…**    
  
… startled, caught off guard, thrown off balance, whatever... I wasn’t there to see it with my own eyes, get off my back.  
  
 **The universe trembled and for the briefest of moments, anything was possible.**  
  
My father…  
  
 **… observed the commotion from the Void between the universes, secure in the isolation…**  
  
… like a reflection in a mirror. He…    
  
 **… reached, curious for the first time since…**  
  
… he had sprung into existence from Azathoth’s breath, and he was suddenly both in and out.  
  
Closed door, open window.   
  
A defect. A precedent. A chance.   
  
Yog-Sothoth…  
  
 **… looked at the disturbed universe that lay unguarded before my sight.**  
  
He reached in…  
  
 **… the universe shifted, ever so slightly, nobody will notice until it is too late…**  
  
… and I returned from the Nothingness where I'd chosen to hide, ashamed and frightened, like the child I was.   
  
 **… and I brought you back. You have not fulfilled your purpose, Wilbur Whateley.  
  
Not yet.**  
  
***  
  
Resurrection is a messy business.  
  
(Jus’ like birth.)  
  
(Or so I’ve heard.)  
  
I was thrown back into the arena – naked, hairless, defenseless, confused, and screaming.  
  
When I realized what had happened to me, my screams turned into howls of pure terror.  
  
(I’m gonna die again.)  
  
***  
  
Someone helped me get up – someone much shorter than me.   
  
Someone fixed my clothes – where did those come from?   
  
Someone touched my hair – when did that grow back?  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
A skinny, bespectacled human male with thin hair and a face that reminded me of a friendly cat. The Silver Key glistening on his hip, tucked into his belt like a knife.   
  
Randolph Carter.   
  
(What’re ye doin’ in the Void ‘tween the universes, hyuman?)  
  
He had been lost, my father told me, imprisoned for years in the flesh of a Yaddithian wizard named Zkauba.   
  
(Yaddith, Yaddith… nah, never ‘eard of it.)  
  
A botched-up attempt to travel through space and time.   
  
(Didn’t do ‘is homework. Typical fer a hyuman.)  
  
(I’m half-hyuman too. Explains a lot, no?)   
  
My father helped them both, when the universe trembled and shook and allowed him to reach in and poke at it. He’s good at multitasking like that.   
  
What did my father want in exchange for his favors?   
  
(Good will’s a hyuman invention. A lie hyumans tell their children.)  
  
Does it matter? They both agreed.   
  
(I’ve fed hyuman children to my brother.)  
  
Randolph Carter agreed to take me back to Earth. Otherwise I might get lost if I’m all by myself, my father said.  
  
(Thank ye, Dad. Yer a good parent. ‘Ere’s a golden star fer ye.)  
  
***  
  
Turns out, this Randolph Carter fellow's a Dreamer. Skillful one too. Has a throne waiting for him in the Dreamlands – that strange realm ‘where soul, mind and flesh are one and where the gods roam free’, or so I’ve read.  
  
I’m saying that Randolph took me there, but I don’t remember much of the place. He still wouldn’t tell me what happened while we were in the Dreamlands. I’m guessing that my appearance changed, since that’s what I usually dream of when I sleep.   
  
Randolph took me to a friend of his – a ghoul named Richard Pickman. This Pickman used to be a human, back when he lived on Earth – I had no idea that that some ghouls aren’t actually born ghouls.   
  
He was also a painter. Go figure.   
  
Randolph forbade him to try and draw me, for which I’m grateful.  
  
Pickman said that the two realms were connected – there were all kinds of secret paths, tunnels, cracks in the walls... He knew of one such path that leads from the Dreamlands’ Vale or Pnath, where the ghouls live, to the Waking World – to the city of Boston on Earth, to be exact.  
  
I nodded at his words – there’s something similar in Dunwich, on Sentinel Hill, right where the stone altar stands. It leads from the Waking World straight to the Void and is practically useless, unless you know either version of the incantation of Yog-Sothoth.  
  
My mother used to say that the hill’s like a money box that can’t be unlocked because we don’t have the key, but if we can still make a couple of coins fall out from time to time – in other words, there’s a crack.  
  
(Mother was funny like that. Good thing my brother ate 'er – I wouldn’t ‘ave been able to kill ‘er myself when the time came.)  
  
Other wizards might be happy to get the coins and move on, but I died trying to find that key – the full incantation that’s on page 751 of the complete edition of the Necronomicon.  
  
(I’m still not over it.)  
  
***  
  
Once we were on Earth, I asked Randolph and Pickman to leave me to my own devices. Randolph made me promise to write to him whenever I could.   
  
(Not jus’ a guide – a nanny too. Once again, thank ye, Dad. ‘Nother golden star fer ye.)  
  
Then they went off together – Randolph had some paperwork to deal with, and Pickman decided to stick around and draw some.   
  
It was February 2, 1933.   
  
(What a coincidence.)   
  
The first thing I did was visit Dunwich. Took me a week of walking, with little sleep and even less food. Found the remains of my house – they still smelled like my brother, even after so many years. Found the shed I used to live in – found it empty. Armitage had taken care of my books, just like he had taken care of my brother.   
  
The stone altar on Sentinel Hill was gone. The stone circles on the other hills were missing too, but they weren’t as important.  
  
I screamed – not in terror, but in rage - and to my great joy   
  
(an’ horror)   
  
the dogs from the nearby village answered immediately. They barked and howled all night, and I stood there on Sentinel Hill, where the dry frozen ground smelled like my brother  
  
(where my brother ‘ad died)  
  
listening and chewing on my fingernails and cursing and thinking.   
  
The crack between this realm and my father’s was out of my reach, perhaps forever.  
  
I had to find a new one, so I lay on my back and looked up to the stars. I had no telescope, so I relied on my eyes and my memory. I had no paper and no ink, so I measured the distances and angles with my hands and fingers and whispered names and numbers to the cold air, hoping to hear the voices coming from the hill again.   
  
I hadn’t liked those voices before, because they weren’t my father’s voice, but when I lay where the altar had once been I knew I’d have given half my tentacles to hear them again.   
  
***  
  
I tried finding another crack – hopefully one that I could reroute to the Void, to my father.  
  
Pickman had mentioned graveyards, lakes, caves, forests... I had plenty to choose from.   
  
The stars told me where to look – where the wall between the realms was thinner than normal and easier to break down.   
  
I walked and I walked, always choosing the long, wild paths – couldn’t risk running into any humans. I remembered old spells I had memorized for the hell of it – spells for summoning wild animals  
  
(fresh blood, fresh food)  
  
for keeping the rain and snow away from my head  
  
(a dry place to sleep)  
  
for cleansing water and lighting fire.  
  
Most wizards never get the hang of such spells. Guess they just don’t have the voice  
  
(the throat an’ the tongue)  
  
for pronouncing the Aklo properly.  
  
I summoned my father often – always made sure it was the right time and place, whenever and wherever the wall between the realms was thin. Drew the magical circle, spoke the short version of his incantation  
  
(an’ mourned my books)   
  
and I  
  
(picked the lock)   
  
spoke to him.  
  
My father spoke to me as well. He was patient and calm and nice, just like Grandpa had been.  
  
(This universe is flawed.)   
  
***  
  
As far as portals go, I didn’t find anything useful. Around the time of the spring equinox, however, I found something – or rather, some _one_  – else. Someone much more interesting.   
  
A daughter of Nodens, one of the Dreamlands’ great gods. Red hair, green eyes, clever, quick and about as domesticated as nymphs come – which isn’t much.   
  
She introduced herself first - Helen Vaughan.   
  
When we got to know each other better, she told me that she often used other names, but this was the one she was born with. I couldn’t understand why – it was kind of like putting a sword into a sheath. You still know what it is, and it isn’t that much safer.   
  
We spent some time together in an empty cabin she had found and used. Had a lot to talk about - I had never met another half-human before, so I jumped at the chance. I’d like to think that she was at least half as excited about it, but she smiled far too often – she seemed to be used to smiling.  
  
(She looks more beautiful when she’s smilin’, though, so I’m not complainin’.)  
  
***  
  
Helen told me that she had died  
  
(hanged ‘erself)  
  
in year 1888 in London, England, only to wake up in a meadow in this forest.   
  
Suddenly, I understood what was going on.   
  
My father wanted to keep this universe off balance – easy to meddle with, easy to break into.   
  
He was rearranging it  _big time_.   
  
(Like a deck of cards an’ I’m the ace up yer sleeve, father.)   
  
No wonder he’s so patient with me.  
  
(Like a puzzle an’ we’re jus’ pieces fer ye to move ‘round as ye see fit.)  
  
***  
  
My grandfather had spoken of other wizards he had met in his youth, so I sought them out – broke into their homes, stole paper and ink   
  
(they ‘ad lots)  
  
and books   
  
(they ‘ad very few, compared to my old collection, an’ what they ‘ad I knew by heart).  
  
***  
  
I ended up in Innsmouth – ruined, raided, dying Innsmouth – where I made a deal with a Deep One – O’ghihanuoakhaa’ravvyoa, or Khaa’r for short. He claimed to be a warrior, but it didn’t take me long to understand what he really was.  
  
(A spy.)  
  
They had a bunch of books in Innsmouth I figured I might need, so I asked to stay for a while, take some notes. Khaa’r arranged for me to stay as long as I like. In exchange, I had to let him hover over me, watching and guessing what and why and how.   
  
(‘Twas the kind of deal that’s never spoken of but still exists – like the stars durin’ the day, it’s there, even ef ye don’t see it.)  
  
So when I finally moved to Arkham, in a little apartment building owned by one of my grandfather’s acquaintances, Khaa’r followed me there.   
  
To be honest, I didn’t want to leave Innsmouth – I liked the peace and quiet there, and the locals were easy to get along with – but in Arkham I could be close to Randolph and Pickman, to whom I wrote regularly as I’d promised, and Helen, to whom I wrote regularly because I wanted to.  
  
***  
  
I continued summoning my father, till he decided that the universe was ready for him.   
  
(Fer us.)   
  
My neighbors   
  
(my companions)   
  
(my friends)   
  
were none the wiser.   
  
(Not even Helen.)  
  
They thought I was simply being an obedient son.  
  
(I was.)  
  
(I only did what I was born to do.)  
  
***  
  
I finally learned what had startled Azathoth.  
  
(She startled me as well.)  
  
***  
  
My father told me about Zkauba the Wizard and his people.  
  
A long time ago, their home planet Yaddith was destroyed by vicious creatures named Dholes. The surviving Yaddithians were forced to go into hiding, eventually dying off as exiles and beggars. During the invasion, Zkauba had been off gallivanting all over time and space, with Randolph Carter in charge of his body.   
  
Yog-Sothoth had proved itself to be a generous god, or so Zkauba was led to believe.  
  
(Dad ‘as much to offer, that’s true, but ye should know that all gods do, ‘specially when ye’ve got nothin’ left to lose.)  
  
The Yaddithians' existence, in exchange for their absolute obedience.  
  
And all I’ve got to do is teach Zkauba the incantation.  
  
***  
  
Zkauba’s going to meet me in Greenland. Tomorrow.  
  
Its June 26, 1934 and I’m in Arkham, Massachusetts.   
  
How am I going to get there?   
  
Well, meet Boris the Byakhee. I named it after a horse I used to own, but it’s okay – Boris calls me ‘cxxxxxrah’, which I think means ‘burden’ in broken Aklo. That's what the Byakhee call their riders.  
  
(Ain't they a bunch of sweethearts?)  
  
Boris likes to nip at my coat and hair. Reminds me of my brother, but not as needy. Loves daring aerobatics.   
  
(Good thing my throats don’t allow me to throw up.)  
  
I had to resort to some name-dropping to get Boris. Got up on the roof of the apartment building and recited a couple of lines from this play – ‘The King in Yellow’. Recently acquired a copy of it, with an autograph from the King him  
  
(it)  
  
self. Signed his   
  
(its)   
  
real name, for some reason…  
  
***  
  
I’m leaving Arkham, and so are Randolph and Pickman.   
  
(I tol’ Randolph that ‘e doesn’t owe Dad anythin’. ‘E’s paid ‘is debt.)  
  
(Tol’ ‘im to read the instructions next time ‘e decides to use the Silver Key.)  
  
(Pickman thought I was bein’ funny. I wasn’t.)  
  
Khaa’r went back to the ocean. I’m going to miss him a little, but he doesn’t need to know that.  
  
(Good riddance, all the same.)  
  
Helen’s found some of her old friends – three strange men  
  
(she calls ‘em ‘queer’, an’ that’s supposed to be some kind of a joke, but I don’t get it)  
  
whose names are Dorian Whats-his-face, Something Someone Wotton, and Edward Hyde, whom I actually like.    
  
If the calendar’s not lying to me, the date of their arrival matches the date when I last summoned my father – when he finally told me that the universe was ready for him.  
  
(Fer us.)  
  
***  
  
I don’t want to think of how dangerous this is.  
  
(Of ‘ow brittle this universe is.)  
  
(Of ‘ow easily creatures from other universes are bein’ brought here.)  
  
(Like animals fer slaughter.)  
  
I’ve got a satchel with magical powders and liquids  
  
(I made ‘em myself)  
  
and a bunch of spells written on my skin  
  
(to protect me against the wind an’ the cold an’ the vacuum of outer space an’ the Byakhee’s speed an’ anythin’ that might get in my way)  
  
(even dogs)  
  
and a new purpose.  
  
I am the Messenger of Yog-Sothoth, his Spawn and Servant.   
  
(I don’t deserve this.)  
  
(I don’t wanna die again.)


	2. Zkauba

**Wilbur Whateley’s Road Trip  
  
Chapter 1: Zkauba**  
  
 _Ef yer gonna ask someone to help ye an’ yer exiled god of a father rearrange the universe an’ disrupt the nat’ral order of space and time, ye hafta choose someone who’s desperate enough to agree on whatever insane plan ye might come up with._  
  
The map back   
  
(at home)  
  
in Arkham claims this place is called Cape York. It’s located in the northwestern part of Greenland, overlooking the Melville Bay. From this high, the thousands of icebergs scattered upon the ocean’s surface remind me of pieces of paper from torn-up letters.   
  
(I prefer burnin’ those.)  
  
It’s June 29, 1934.  
  
(I count ev’ry day, pay attention to it, treasure ev’ry hour that passes, an’ I prob’ly will till the rest of my life. Somethin’ ‘bout havin’ died once already.)  
  
I’ve been here for two days and I already hate it.  
  
The air is salty, almost bitter and makes me nauseous, and would’ve been chilly if the symbols written on my skin didn’t protect me from it. The winds pull at my coat and hair. Annoying.   
  
Zkauba from Yaddith raises his voice in a song. Or at least tries to.  
  
“Aaaiaaii…”  
  
I interrupt him. Again.  
  
(‘E ‘asn’t decked me yet, but I can tell ‘e’d really like to.)  
  
“No, no, not ‘aaaaaii’. Yer… yer singin’ through yer nose… snout… whatever. It’s ’aaaaeeaaeee’. Like this.”   
  
I sing the tricky part of the invocation, waving my hand up and down to emphasize the higher notes. The air seems to clear up – the colors, sounds and   
  
(unfortunately)   
  
the smells become sharper, more pronounced, as if the song calls them to attention.   
  
(Reality’s bein’ pulled at, teased, threatened – like a beetle in the hands of a cruel child.)  
  
Zkauba listens intently, repeating the motions with his own claws. When I finish, he tries again. It’s kind of like listening to a swarm of bees try to sing in chorus. It’s much   
better this time and I let him know.   
  
“Ye’ll get used to it. As long as ye remember when to breathe so that ye don’t choke...”   
  
We’re standing in the middle of a crude magical circle I’ve carved into the frozen ground and marked with stones. There’s no incense, no fire, no sacrifices – because this isn’t a ritual, it’s a lesson. I’ve been teaching the Yaddithian the incantation of Yog-Sothoth – the short version, of course, since it seems to be sufficient.  
  
(Fer now.)   
  
(One day, I’ll git my hands on that wretched book. One day.)  
  
The incantation’s almost disturbingly simple at first glance, but the details can hide not just the devil but his entire demonic horde and a small satanic cult too. There’s no room for sloppiness.   
  
I try to remember Grandpa’s teaching methods, but I can’t.   
  
(“Writin’ down the words is useless, Willy – like tryin’ tew write ‘bout ‘ow water taste.”)  
  
(“But they’s still written down, Grandpa. In yer books.”)  
  
(“Readin’ an’ understandin’ be two diff’ren’ things, boy.”)  
  
We allow ourselves a few minutes rest. The energies inside the circle flutter in confusion when we exit its borders.  
  
(Ssshhhhh… be back soon.)  
  
We sit near Zkauba’s travelling machine – a fascinating device I’d rather die than use.  
  
(It looks like a coffin.)  
  
It’s made from a strange material that’s neither wood nor iron, if my curious fingers are to be trusted. It reminds me of   
  
(a coffin)   
  
one of those fancy grandfather clocks; it’s even got a dial - with four twitching hands and bizarre hieroglyphs instead of numbers. The machine seems to emit warmth, as well as a dull, constant noise that reminds me of the humming of a person forced to wait.  
  
***  
  
Zkauba can really pull off the wise weathered wizard look, despite having the overall appearance of the oversized lovechild of an armadillo and a fruit fly. He starts rummaging in his mantle’s pockets for his nutrition drops; once he’s located the small box, he offers me one, despite knowing that I’m going to decline it.   
  
(Took my family a whole year t’figure out what I can and can’t eat; I’m not gonna get sick ‘cause of common courtesy.)  
  
Boris the Byakhee chooses this exact moment to drop half a seal at my feet, startling us both.   
Needless to say, I’ve named the creature well – the original Boris was a vicious, jittery behemoth of a horse that showed its affection by chewing on my hair.   
  
I shout a ‘thank ye’ at the skies in broken Aklo – a pathetic excuse of a language only the Byakhee seem to understand and use, before getting the pocket knife from my satchel belt to pick at the dead seal, searching for red meat. I cut small pieces – one, two, three, four, five.  More than enough. I try not to get my hands all bloody and fail. I chew carefully – the fresh, warm blood feels wonderful on my tongue – better than sweet tea, even if the meat itself reeks.   
  
Secretly, I’m glad that Boris has eaten the animal’s head. Never liked having my food stare at me.   
  
(Never liked bein’ stared at, to be honest.)  
  
I try spitting out the meat as discreetly as I can, hiding the pieces inside the seal’s hollowed-out carcass – I’ve remembered the way my friend Helen Vaughan would eat cherries when we’re not alone at the table.   
  
Zkauba watches the Byakhee flit around the wide open spaces above the headland like an oversized dragonfly… or at least pretends to do so. His eyes are difficult to read, even more so than his snout – there’s cruelty in there, shining like a battered shield. When he finally speaks, his voice is less like a choir of bees and more like a quartet of wasps. He speaks in one of Aklo’s many dialects – I say many, because there are many races that mangle the language in their desperate attempts to master it.   
  
“To be honest, I am surprised that anyone even knows of this incantation – the dialect is unfamiliar, at least to me.”  
  
I’m no snob, but I fight the urge to wince at the awful pronunciation.  
  
(Ugh, ‘tis worse than Herbert West’s attempt to say ‘Cthulhu’.)  
  
Zkauba doesn’t even stir when Boris suddenly lands, almost crushing me in its hurry. I don’t reply to him immediately – I have to get out from under the Byakhee’s leathery left wing, which it insists on wrapping around me like a blanket.   
  
(‘Ow does it even do that, fer cryin’ out loud? Wings don’t work that way.)  
  
I swear loudly. Boris nips at my hair in retaliation  
  
(what did I tell ye?)  
  
before attacking my leftovers. They’re gone in less than a minute – apparently, the Byakhee have no concept of chewing.    
  
“It’s in Primordial Aklo – the accent of the Blind Idiot God, at least ‘fore its nervous breakdown.” I explain as I lick my fingers clean.   
  
(To hell with the manners. I’m still hungry.)  
  
Zkauba’s snout twitches and he finally turns his head to look at me.   
  
“You have a curious way of describing the indescribable, Spawn of Yog-Sothoth.”  
  
I shrug.   
  
“Not really. I’m only parrotin’ my father’s words.”  
  
We fall silent. Boris yawns and lays its large head on the ground next to me, curving its long body in a half-circle around me. I rest my back against its surprisingly warm side and stretch out my legs. Zkauba, on the other hand, curls up into a ball, tightly wrapping the threadbare mantle around his thick body.   
  
Tiredness and boredom are creeping up on our small company. Neither of us has slept properly since our arrival, and the endless repetition of a single invocation is getting on our nerves.  
  
***  
  
I try to doze off, but the Yaddithian has other ideas.  
  
“Yog-Sothoth has spoken to you of the time before?”  
  
“ ‘Fore what?”  
  
“The time before the Blind Idiot God became what it is today. The time before Yog-Sothoth’s exile.”  
  
(I asked ‘im once, ‘fore I knew my place. I was eight, I think.)  
  
“No.”  
  
***  
  
The couple of minutes turn into an hour, but nobody complains. Personally, I’m all too happy to let the bright sun and the fresh air work their magic on my tangled thoughts. The taste of the seal’s blood in my mouth makes the ocean’s smells more bearable.  
  
***  
  
The tall, lean figure of Ithaqua the Wind-Walker flies over the ocean’s surface. Seen from afar, he appears to be half-transparent, like a column of white smoke. I’d like to wave at him, talk to him  
  
(why do gods require hyuman flesh anyway)  
  
but I know better than to try my luck. I’m already testing his patience with my refusal to make an offering.  
  
(Ye should’ve let  _that thing_  freeze to death.)  
  
Ithaqua’s silhouette seems to melt into the horizon, becoming one with the icebergs. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.   
  
***  
  
Zkauba huffs loudly through his snout – the Yaddithian equivalent of a cough, maybe. I twitch, irritated, as I force myself out of the pleasant reverie.  
  
“I will need a certain quantity of that powder you mentioned earlier – Ibn-Ghazi…”  
  
That wakes me up completely. I shake a finger at him.   
  
“No. Ye’ve gotta make yer own ritual. Teachin’ ye the proper words is all I can do, but the rest’s gotta be yers.”  
  
Zkauba huffs again, this time softly – a light gasp of surprise.  
  
“You mean… I must create my own summoning ritual? And Yog-Sothoth will respond to such blasphemy?”  
  
I get up and return to the magical circle, motioning Zkauba to follow me. I stand in the southern quarter, he takes his place in the northern one. He’s yet to ask me why.   
  
(The lack of curiosity’s a sure sign of arrogance.)  
  
I thump my right foot to wake up the energies we   
  
(I)  
  
invoked earlier. The stones on the circle’s border hum in response.   
  
I think very carefully about what I’m going say and how I’m going to say it.  
  
“Yog-Sothoth knows all an’ sees all. It must be ye who’s invitin’ it, though, an’ in yer own way, ‘stead of reusin’ another wizard’s old tricks.”  
  
(So far, so good.)  
  
“I do not understand.”  
  
Sigh.   
  
I’ve never thought that one day I’d have to explain this to another living being. It’s my family’s most horrible secret – almost as precious as the recipe for turning carved wooden disks into golden doubloons. It’s the hidden path in the woods only we know about, the shortcut through the labyrinth, the other door behind the bookcase.  
  
“Look… or rather, listen. Aklo’s not a tongue that ye pray in. Aklo’s fer makin’ requests, issuin’ commands, talkin’ to the gods as their equal. When ye speak in Aklo, reality itself listens. An’ ef ye speak the right words, ye can make reality obey.“   
  
Zkauba seems to soak up my words like a sponge.  
  
“Knowin’ Aklo, understandin’ Aklo – that’s half of it. The other half – that’s ye. It’s not enough to speak right. Ye gotta make it clear that it’s ye who does the talkin’...”   
  
I bite my lip. I’m not very good at this ‘tell, not show’ business.  
  
“Whenever I call my father, I… I sing – sometimes very quietly, but it’s still my song. I draw circles on the ground an’ symbols on my skin – mark my place an’ myself. When I call my father, ‘e knows it’s me – ‘e knows that I’m callin’ to ‘im.”   
  
Zkauba nods. And nods. And nods until his neck begins to creak.   
  
“There are certain cantrips in Aklo, of whose existence few of my people are – were – even aware – ancient curses that once kept the Dholes at bay, until our mages deemed them unholy and barbaric…”   
  
Something in his demeanor curls up, like an angry fist.  
  
(I think I wanna be there, when ye finally strike.)   
  
“With Yog-Sothoth’s blessing, I shall wipe out the race of Dhole, until their name is but a blurry memory, a speck of dust on the libraries’ shelves.”  
  
I blink slowly, suppressing a shiver.   
  
“Ye wish to undo their existence.”  
  
(I wish to know those cantrips.)  
  
“Yaddith… will never be the way it was. There is no punishment severe enough for the… damage those… monsters have caused – nevermind my people’s suffering and humiliation!” Zkauba’s breath hisses through his snout as he fights to regain his composure. “We searched high and low for a formula that would drive the Dholes away… never did I expect to find it here, on this tiny planet. I am most grateful that Yog-Sothoth, in its infinite wisdom, used Azathoth’s… confusion… to not only revive you – the long-suffering offspring – but to rid me of that body-snatching coward, that Rrrrrrrandolllph Carrrrtttterrrr…”  
  
I wait for him to continue, but Zkauba simply bows at my direction   
  
(not at me)  
  
and mutters an excuse.  
  
“Apology accepted.”  
  
***  
  
Zkauba’s a fast learner, but so is your average drowning man, if the old proverb’s to be trusted. On the fifth day, he is finally able to chant the incantation without a hitch from start to finish. His pronunciation can use some more work, but everything else is more or less perfect.   
  
When he chants, I whisper along like a proud echo.   
  
(I ‘aven’t failed yet.)  
  
The stones around the magical circle hum audibly now, regardless of whether the circle’s occupied or not  
  
(jus’ like the hills in Dunwich, I’d give half my tentacles to hear ‘em again)  
  
and there’s a light in the air, coming from the   
  
(Void)  
  
reality beyond the one we currently inhabit – an opalescent glow in my peripheral vision that erupts in feverish sparks with our every word and gesture.   
  
***  
  
While we rest, I ask Zkauba about his – well, the Yaddithians’ – magical traditions.   
Ten minutes later, I can only stare at him, dumbfounded.  
  
“Whaddye mean, ye don’t use magical circles?” I blurt out.   
  
Zkauba swallows a nutrition drop before answering.  
  
“Our ways dictate that the perfect shape is a seven-pointed figure.”  
  
“Ye mean, like a star?”  
  
“I don’t know how you came to this conclusion, considering that stars are massive, luminous spheres...”  
  
(Why ye pompous little…!)  
  
“So no fire, huh? No incense either?”  
  
“Too primitive.”  
  
“No blood sacrifices?”  
  
“Too messy.”  
  
“No searchin’ fer visions?”  
  
“Too dangerous.”  
  
“Amulets?”  
  
“Tools.”  
  
***  
  
(Yog-Sothoth.)  
  
On the seventh day, I climb on the Byakhee’s back and instruct it to fly away from the headland, maybe take me further up north for a couple of hours. However, I can’t help myself – I look back constantly, craning my neck and risking to fall into the icy waters of the ocean. Boris knows that, so instead of doing what it’s been told, it makes sure to fly close to Cape York.  
  
(I swear, ef ye betray me, I’ll skin ye alive.)  
  
I try not to watch as Zkauba carves a new figure into the frozen ground and chooses the largest stones he can find for the seven points. When he’s ready, he pulls out a short staff out of his mantle’s seemingly bottomless pockets. I try not to watch as Zkauba dances and spins, as the air around him sizzles and sparkles.  
  
(Yog-Sothoth.)  
  
A flash of blinding light that isn’t light at all – a glimpse of the nothingness that lies between the worlds.  
  
(Yog-Sothoth.)  
  
(Father.)  
  
(Yog-Sothoth.)  
  
(The petty jealousy of a spoiled brat.)  
  
(Yog-Sothoth.)  
  
***  
  
We part ways on the eighth day. Zkauba insists on shaking feet with me – first the left, then the right. It’s awkward, to say the least.   
  
He hands me something that looks like a scroll, smells like a lamb’s entrails and feels like a piece of silk. It’s pale green in color and has a crude star map doodled on it with purple ink. I read the names and recognize the location from my old charts.  
  
“’Tis the planet ye’ve chosen?”  
  
I point at the dot in the bottom right corner of the map. Zkauba’s snout contorts in a smile – a human smile. I immediately regret grinning at him that one time.  
  
“New Yaddith. Consider yourself welcome.”  
  
Boris the Byakhee looks at the map over my shoulder, shoving its muzzle at it and almost tearing it apart, and squeaks in broken Aklo. It has to repeat itself three times before I understand it.  
  
When I finally do, I burst out laughing.   
  
“The Great Bitten Fruit… Yer killin’ me!”  
  
Zkauba tilts his head.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“That’s how the Byakhee call this world – the Great Bitten Fruit.”  
  
Boris squeaks some more and this time I’m prepared to listen and translate.  
  
“They say no other race wants to live there, ‘cause nobody knows where the planet came from or when it first appeared… ” My brain catches up with my mouth and I smile. “Typical fer father, really.”  
  
Zkauba doesn’t seem to get it now, but he will, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilbur and Zkauba don't really like each other, but are mature enough not to get into a fight. :P
> 
> Also, when a Byakhee gets excited, it starts to squeak. Like a rubber ducky!


	3. Carcosa

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 2: Carcosa**   
  
_One of the many, many downsides of bein’ the spawn of a god is that ye’ve gotta be nice to yer many, many relatives, or else yer gonna get an earful. **You were raised better than this, what would have your mother said, we never had such problems with your brother.**  _

_Pah! Whatever._  
  
First thing to know about riding a Byakhee is that they don’t really see you as their rider – rather, you’re their luggage. Special delivery, breakable items, express mail… the point is, they’re far from the glorified interstellar cab service that rumors describe them as.  
  
(Most of ‘em rumor spreaders usually don’t know what they’re talkin’ about, so no surprise ‘ere.)   
  
Riding a Byakhee while on Earth isn’t much better, mind you – it can only be described as entertaining if you enjoy sitting motionless – pardon,  _flying_  – for hours high above the clouds, with the sun glaring down on your back like a pissed off god. The occasional barrel roll now and then is somewhat amusing, at least until you almost fall off the creature’s back during the first spontaneous loop.  
  
(Still, beats walkin’ ev’rywhere. Or stealin’ yer landlord’s car fer a midnight drive. Or livin’ in the same village fer fifteen years, never knowin’ anythin’ ‘sides the hills an’ their stone circles.)  
  
(No, I’m not bitter.)  
  
I’m not really sure when we finally leave Earth behind us. All I know that Boris suddenly starts flapping its wings almost frantically, as if trying to gain height, before the darkness and silence of outer space engulf my sight and hearing.   
  
(Panic. This ain’t natural. Uh, I don’t like this adventure anymore.)  
  
My insides lurch and become unpleasantly warm – we’re following the ley lines,   
  
(a naïve child followin’ a trail of crumbs, so easy to lose sight of yer home)  
  
unseen as they are  
  
(as the air currents are to a bird)  
  
and their energies are pulling at me with all their might  
  
(like a landslide ‘neath my feet… fly or fall or dance)  
  
and I may know how to find all the weak spots and all the sharp angles between the realms but I will never be able to manipulate this – the ancient veins of a heartless universe.  
  
After the initial shock passes, I try to focus on the overall feeling of numbness caused by the symbols I’ve drawn on by body as they take full effect. The ink’s finally stopped itching, most of it already absorbed by the skin. I’m slightly worried that the lines might get rubbed off at some point, but I’m unwilling to risk with the various potions and amulets I’ve heard about.  
  
Soon I realize that I don’t dare move a single muscle. Too afraid to fall off. Uncomfortable. Bored. I have no way to tell how long we’ve traveled, so I count the flaps of Boris’ wings.   
  
(Twenty-eight… my insides’re still burnin’, still twistin’… thirty…)   
  
Boris shrugs, as if to get me to pay attention. There’s no need. The world that lays before us has haunted my dreams for some time now, and how can it not – even from this far, I still can’t tell where the Waking World begins and the Dreamlands end, not with the ley lines being tied in a knot around the planet,  
  
(a hangman’s  noose or a skippin’ rope, who knows fer sure?)  
  
whose surface glows so bright…  the city of Carcosa with its countless sickly yellow lights, nestled among the milky mists of the Lake Hali.  
  
***  
  
“Boris, I’ve a feelin’ we’re not in Massachusetts anymore.” I mutter as I crane my neck to see as much as I can.   
  
“Rhhhrrtuh.” Boris gently prods me to keep walking as it flops along.   
  
The Byakhee landed on what I think is Carcosa’s central square – vaster than a wheat field and just as golden, it begins at a tremendous series of steps that lead straight to the lake’s shore and ends in front of the palace’s mirror-like gates. I’ve never suspected that the yellow color has so many shades  
  
(a peeling cobblestone reveals that it’s only paint – everythin’ ‘ere’s been painted yellow at some point, an’ repainted regularly)  
  
or that towers can be built so high and with so many windows  
  
(with so many winged shadows lurkin’ there)  
  
or that fountains can be bigger than a house and spray heavy, cloud-like mist instead of water. I want to stop and dip my fingers  
  
(maybe even toss a coin, heh)  
  
but Boris shepherds me to the palace, pushing my hand away from the fountain with its large muzzle.  
  
There is a light in every window, and countless of lampposts in the alleys between the buildings, but no other signs of life. The sky is bruise-purple and clear, with two anemic suns whose surface seems to boil rather than burn. I find myself wondering when   
  
(ef)  
  
they’ll set in time for me to do some stargazing before leaving the planet.   
  
(I’ve a schedule to keep, after all.)  
  
***  
  
I call it a palace simply because, well, that’s what it looks like. Compared to the decidedly plain, even misshapen buildings that surround the square, it’s almost absurdly glamorous with its spires, arches and colonnades. It’s painted a very light shade of yellow, almost white. The dark circle of bare ground surrounding the palace is so cracked and dry it crunches underneath my feet – remnants of a garden, perhaps.  
  
(Now’s a good time to recall ‘The King in Yellow’ an’ ‘ow it ends.)  
  
When I’m close enough to take a good look at the gates, I notice that the sights reflected in their mirror-like surface  don’t belong to this realm – at least, not to the part of it that’s accessible to my senses. I tell Boris to wait for me, lamely assuring it that I’ll be back soon. The Byakhee doesn’t react to my words, so I turn my back on it and try to push the gates open.  
  
They  _flutter_  open and  
  
(no gates, but curtains – soft, glossy, gauzy)  
  
I walk in. Shadows fill the air, twitching and twisting, their limbs stretched towards the world beyond the curtain   
  
(hands of drownin’ men)   
  
and towards me   
  
(hands of beggars).  
  
I shoo them away – I’ve nothing to give.   
  
I look around and see that on the inside, the palace is rather plain – its domes and arches house a single enormous hall with blank walls, smooth columns and an unimpressive mosaic floor. There are no windows and no chandeliers – just a round hole in the center of the coffered ceiling to let in a single gasping ray of sunlight.  
  
(Reminds me of our house, when I ‘ad to tear down the walls inside to make room fer my obese glutton of a twin.)  
  
There’s slime everywhere – a thick dark coat of it, its color beyond description, with small chunks of matter  
  
(flesh)  
  
dissolving in it. Kind of looks like mouldy porridge, but smells even worse.   
  
There’s a stage in the middle of the palace, and there’s a tall, yellow-clad figure on the stage. Judging the distance between us, I can safely guess that the creature’s at least twice my size. It’s holding a flute – I’ve obviously interrupted its… rehearsal?   
  
The Unspeakable One waves at me with a single dark tentacle. I wave back and resume walking, trying not to think about the state of my shoes as I trudge through the slime and pray not to slip.  
  
(I love my shoes, to be honest – after all, I’ve made ‘em myself, jus’ like the rest of my clothes.)  
  
It doesn’t move until I’ve bowed and made my offering – which happens to be my copy of  ‘The King in Yellow’. A tentacle reaches to accept the book – the appendage is almost as thick as my torso, dark green and slightly transparent. I watch as the Unspeakable One flips through the pages, until it finds the one that bears its real name and tears it off.  
  
(Why didja sign it ef ye don’t want anybody to know?)  
  
(Are all artists so pretentious?)  
  
The featureless pale face   
  
(mask)  
  
turns to look at me. Its voice is like the echo in an ancient theatre. I close my eyes for a second, listening as the sound reverberates through the palace, through my own flesh, scratching at my ears, trying to get inside my head.  
  
“You performed the role of the King in Yellow splendidly back on your… on Earth.”  
  
I smile.   
  
“That really means somethin’, comin’ from the King ‘imself.”  
  
The Unspeakable One squats on the stage, the long yellow robe spreading out around it all theatrical-like, and motions me to sit beside it, which I do with some difficulty. We stare at   
  
(study)  
  
each other for a while, before it speaks again.  
  
“Did you really have to use my full name? Whenever I hear it, I recall the times when father was scolding me.”  
  
His tone is playful, so I huff in   
  
(relief)  
  
amusement.  
  
“Why, is there ‘nother way to get yer full attention?”  
  
“No, not really. But thank you for letting me correct this old mistake.” The Unspeakable One waves the book in front of my face and it turns into dust. “I was foolish to write it down. Some would say that I was foolish to let you humans know so much...”  
  
(‘You humans’, eh?)  
  
“… but you are so adorable when you… ah, perform. Like children playing soldiers.” The tentacle touches my shoulder and then my elbow. “I would prefer it if you call me Hastur next time you decide to visit - a far more elegant name, at least compared to the one given to me by our father.”  
  
I shrug   
  
(the tentacle off).  
  
“Ye should try livin’ as ‘Wilbur Whateley’ fer a decade or so, see ‘ow ye like that.”  
  
Hastur touches its mask  
  
(face)  
  
as if to make sure it’s still there.  
  
“I am guessing that your human parent named you.”  
  
I grin.  
  
“Mother got to name  _me_ , yes, but father got to name my twin brother.”  
  
“Really? And how did he…”  
  
“Twin.”  
  
Hastur snorts. I had no idea there was such a thing as a dignified snort.  
  
“Typical for father, really.”  
  
The shadows have begun gathering in front of the stage and I swear I can hear them whispering.  
  
(Show’s about to start, so let’s ‘ave a round of applause, please.)  
  
Hastur gets the first line.  
  
“The most fantastic rumors have been reaching Carcosa for some time now.”  
  
My eyes narrow, my smile diminishes to a quirk of the corners of my mouth.  
  
“I take it that the Crawlin’ Chaos’s a regular visitor.”  
  
“Unfortunately.”  
  
Hastur shifts its massive body – its every movement hints of tentacles being dragged across the stage and of a frame that fights to stay upright.  
  
“Most peculiar rumors… the Blind Idiot God shivering in the middle of its Court, startled and distraught. The universe trembling, quivering, shifting ever so subtly, as if not to alert anybody… And then the main suspect has the gall to  _quote me_  and  _play me_  and call me by my real name, knowing full well that I would not be able to manifest – not through  _its_  flesh, at least - for the sole purpose of acquiring a steed. I have many servants – is contacting any of them below your dignity?”  
  
I stare at Hastur’s  
  
(mask)  
  
face. I can’t tell if it’s made from silver or silk or skin.  
  
“I don’t deal with cults.”   
  
“Yours must be a lonely path.”  
  
“It’s the only one that offers at least some sort of independence.”  
  
A pause.  
  
“Starved for freedom, just like our father.”  
  
Hastur lowers its… face to mine and its voice drops to a whisper.  
  
“Take it from your elders… from your family - what you wish to do is impossible, and attempting to do it is unwise.”  
  
(I know.)  
  
“You cannot even begin to imagine what the universe was like when Yog-Sothoth still lived among us… or rather, when we lived among it… when the Blind Idiot God could see and think for itself.“  
  
(Couldn’t’ve been worse than now, when the Crawlin’ Chaos does all the thinkin’ and seein’.)   
  
“We did not dare call ourselves gods, not  while Yog-Sothoth was around, always around, watching and knowing…  and time and space were like folds on its robe.”  
  
(Why d’ye think I care?)  
  
“Remove this look of betrayal from your face. I do not expect you to understand, but trust me when I say that banishing Yog-Sothoth was Azathoth’s last act of sanity.”  
  
I gulp. Hastur’s words pull at strings I try to never touch, and now I can hear them snap one by one.  
  
(A pitiful lament. A war cry. A minute of silence.)  
  
I try to whisper, to keep my voice even.  
  
“All I’m hearin’ right now is ye tellin’ me that my entire existence’s meaningless… a foolish mistake, a gross blunder.”  
  
Hastur doesn’t move, but I feel like it’s shaking its head at my words.  
  
“You are very young, so I forgive you.”  
  
(That does it.)   
  
“What for?” I snap.  
  
“For thinking that reason exists. For believing that there is a meaning behind every speck of dust. For acting as if destiny is set in stone.”  
  
Hastur wraps a tentacle around both my shoulders and I wonder if it’s ever had a similar conversation with another   
  
(sibling)  
  
being. Its face is still at my level.    
  
“Do whatever you feel you must do, but when you fail…”  
“Ef I fail.”  
  
(Did I jus’ interrupt a god?)   
  
  
  
“… when you fail, do not allow yourself to forget one thing – that this existence belongs to you just as much as it belongs to our father. Perhaps even more.”  
  
“Ye sound as ef…”  
  
“… as if I know what I am talking about. Yes.” Hastur removes its tentacle and finally straightens its posture. “The children are but shadows underneath their parents’ feet, until they learn not to fear the light.”  
  
I understand.   
  
(Wish I didn’t, but I’m glad I do.)  
  
“Thank ye fer sendin’ a Byakhee my way.”  
  
“You are welcome to visit me whenever you wish. It is a shame we cannot meet in the Dreamlands… shame that you are bound to this realm… but Carcosa will be sufficient.”  
  
I figure that I should say something nice.  
  
“It’s a marvelous city.”  
  
“I know.”   
  
Hastur raises the flute to its   
  
(face)  
  
mask and plays a short series of tunes.  
  
“I am not going to help you open a portal for our father to come and go as it pleases, but I can at least teach you something useful. How good of a whistler are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilbur visits a distant relative.
> 
> If you don't like August Derleth, you might not like this version of Hastur. :P


	4. New Yaddith

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 3: New Yaddith**  
  
 _When I was a lil' kid, Grandpa forbade me to do anythin' else 'fore I was done with my chores. I obeyed him till the day 'e died, an' some time after.  
  
Then I died too._  
  
Carcosa’s a nice place, but I can’t stay here forever – partly because I have many other places to visit, and partly because Hastur seems worried that I might decide to summon my  
  
(our)  
  
father while I’m here and mess up his palace or something.   
  
(Also, I can only skip so many rocks in the Lake of Hali ‘fore I get bored.)  
  
I ask Boris the Byakhee to take me outside the city, away from prying eyes.   
  
(Away from the King in Yellow.)  
  
It lets me climb on its back once again and flies until we reach a remote hilltop, from where Carcosa is but a jagged golden line on the horizon. During the flight, I spot the ruins of several villages – half-demolished walls and long forgotten paths, and dry cracked soil amidst the fields of pale lichen. Once we arrive, I let Boris curl up next to me   
  
(to protect me from the winds, ‘ow nice of ye)  
  
while I check the condition of the symbols I’ve drawn on my skin – forehead, shoulders, wrists, knees, ankles, tail. The dark red lines are intact; I trail them with my finger, taking note of the golden specks of dust in the ink. I bite my lip and I wonder if I’ll be able to clean them when I return to Earth.  
  
(Shouldn’t’ve added that leftover drop from the gold-makin’ potion. Should’ve wasted it on a couple o’ pins instead.)    
  
***  
  
“So I can’t steal anythin’ from the Library of Celaeno…”  
  
Nod.  
  
“The Fire Vampires are a bunch of nancies an’ ye hate ‘em...”  
  
Nod.  
  
“I s’ppose Cthugha is outta the question, what with the whole imprisoned-inna-star thing...”  
  
Nod.  
  
“Ghroth’s too far away an’ ye don’t feel like chasin’ it...”  
  
Nod.   
  
“Okay, ‘ere’s the plan, then…”  
  
***  
  
I once heard someone  
  
(who shall remain nameless but who fer the record is an utter bitch)  
  
call the Byakhee ‘ponies from outer space’, obviously not knowing that they’re a race of highly intelligent beings - not in the city-building, book-writing sort of way, but rather in the let’s-make-ourselves-irreplaceable-and-have-several-deities-depend-on-our-services sort of way, which makes it even more impressive.   
  
So when Boris told me in broken Aklo that the Byakhees call the strange planet that appeared out of nowhere ‘the Great Bitten Fruit”, I knew I should expect something interesting, if not outright spectacular.   
  
The Byakhee don’t measure time, so I don’t know when exactly the strange planet joined the system of the Demon Star Algol. I also don’t know for how long I’ve been traveling.   
  
(Maybe a couple o’ weeks, ef I count my stay in Greenland.)   
  
The Byakhees fly fast – faster than thoughts; they follow the ley lines, so they don’t get lost; they know how to use the ‘shortcuts’ between two different points in space.   
  
(But ‘ow fast is fast enough fer me?)  
  
I study Zkauba’s map, trying not to flinch every time Boris’ wings flap. I wonder if the planet is more suitable for a portal than Earth. Probably not – Yog-Sothoth’s almost certainly placed it here during one of my rituals, when he’s capable of reaching in from the Void and meddling with the natural order, and that would make the planet dangerously unstable.  
  
(A grain of dust stuck in the throat of a mindless universe, but the insane cough too, or maybe this one’ll make it choke an’ die, I can always hope.)  
  
***  
  
New Yaddith looks a bit like a peeled pomegranate – red and bumpy; several large chunks of its landmass seem to be missing. Its surface is streaked with white – water, I learn when we finally land; Boris has to circle the planet several times before spotting something in the southern hemisphere.  
  
The Yaddithians have already begun building their first city – they’ve chosen a valley at the foot of a rather beautiful mountain  
  
(reminds me of the White Mountains, where I met Helen Vaughan fer the first time),   
  
near one of the smaller water bodies that are neither lakes nor rivers. There are forests not too far away – miles upon miles of red fungi in all shapes and sizes that gradually turn into sweet-scented fields of pink moss. I raise my head to look at the sky – it’s solid white, like the ceiling in my apartment back in Arkham.  
  
The Yaddithians don’t cease work when I enter the premises of their city-in-progress. Most of them are busy on the construction sites; they’ve already built several dozens of houses, each with its own patch of land that’s probably supposed to be a garden, and now they seem to be working on the administration buildings. I observe the machines and the methods they use, but I can’t remember seeing anything like that on Earth. Their main building materials are variously shaped elements that appear to be made from some sort of white clay – probably extracted from the areas along the water body. I crane my neck and yup, there are several pits by the coast and a beaten track to the storage area, where the elements are being produced.  
(Didn’t know there were so many types o’ bricks.)  
  
I spot several tents not very far away from the city – the laboratories, if my guess is correct. I head towards the largest tent with Boris in tow and, surely enough, Zkauba steps outside with a tray of moss samples. He notices me almost immediately – an eight-foot figure with a long coat and a Byakhee trailing after it.  
  
“You are late.” He says instead of a greeting, but shakes feet with me. “We had a very nice eclipse yesterday. It was very symbolical, and you missed it.”  
  
It’s like a signal and suddenly, I’m surrounded by Yaddithians of all ages – the elders are covered with blemishes and spots, while the youngsters are like shiny beetles. They all wear shabby cloaks similar to Zkauba’s multi-pocket monstrosity. They’re noticeably shorted and skinnier than him. They're much more friendly than him, too, and that makes it even worse - I don't want to think  
  
(care)  
  
about how many aeons they’ve spent in exile before my father got involved, and how much they've lost during that time.  
  
***  
  
Zkauba shows me around the laboratories – this one is for studying the moss, that one is for the fungus forests; there are tents for the water, the soil, the animals they’ve managed to capture (among those are a couple of one-eyed bats and a hairy snake). There are several tents solely for the study of microorganisms.   
  
“Rrrrrrrrrrrrandolllph Carrrrrrrrttttterrrrrr was very careful to immunize me before taking my body to your planet. We have to draw lessons from everything that happens to us.”  
  
I scratch my face when I remember that I hadn’t thought about immunization before leaving Earth myself. When I mention it to Zkauba, he simply huffs through his snout.  
  
“Your flesh is capable of withstanding the harmful effects of interstellar flight with just a couple of magical symbols, and you worry about bacteria?”  
  
He leads me back to the construction site, spewing interesting tidbits about Yaddithian architecture and urban planning. Zkauba insists on explaining to me how they resolved the feeding issue, after which he describes at length their plans for exploration missions. I really want to listen, but his buzzing voice makes me sleepy.  
  
When he finally shuts up, I found myself standing in front of a familiar structure. For a second, I forget how to breathe.   
  
“A stone circle.”  
  
Zkauba nods.  
  
“It was already here when we arrived.”  
  
It’s in the center of the city-in-progress, which explains why I didn’t notice it before, and it’s enormous – almost two hundred feet in diameter; the ground beyond the standing stones is perfectly flat and covered with a fine layer of white ash. The stones themselves are giant, twice as tall as me, and look like misshapen pieces of nacre.   
  
The noise from the construction site disappears when I cross the circle’s boundaries. Zkauba doesn’t follow me, choosing to remain outside.   
  
(So much the better.)  
  
I spend some time doing absolutely nothing, except breathing  
  
(tryin’ to smell something – the scent of Sentinel Hill, perhaps, the scent of my brother)  
  
and listening  
  
(hopin’ to hear the voices once again, the voices I used to despise),  
  
until Zkauba calls me. His voice sounds muffled.  
  
“Willlburrrr Wheeeeiitllley.”  
  
This is the first time he addresses me by my actual name, but I pretend I didn’t hear him.  
  
“You have been standing there for the better part of an hour. Is everything alright?”   
  
My eyes are starting to water. I grit my teeth.  
  
(Time flies when yer havin’ fun, ol’ man.)  
  
“The Byakhee is getting restless, but it does not dare follow you into the circle.”  
  
I turn around slowly, a wide smile on my face, and I’m rewarded with the sight of Zkauba flinching. How satisfying.   
  
(I used to enjoy their fear, their revulsion, when I ‘ad nothin’ else to enjoy.)  
  
I quickly school my expression into something more tolerable and leave the circle.  
  
“This'll do." I tell him and I pat one of the stones for emphasis. "’Owever, the circle’s yet to be claimed – the path beyond it is more or less untrodden. I’m gonna hafta make a symbolic offerin’ to my fa… to Yog-Sothoth.”  
  
Zkauba has resumed his composure fairly quickly.  
  
“I guessed as much.” he says.  
  
I belatedly remember that he considers sacrifices to be ‘messy’. Or was it 'primitive'? I've forgotten.  
  
“It’s very simple.” I explain. “I make an offerin’, I claim the circle, I claim the land it stands on, an’ I can also insert a couple o’ words 'bout claimin’ the planet too.”  
  
“But you need something to offer.”  
  
“D’ye ‘ave any ideas?”   
  
Zkauba stares at me for a long while, before asking me to follow him back to the laboratories.   
  
***  
  
The aquarium contains a single creature - a strange animal with the body of a large fish and several tentacles in place of the head. It swims around happily, pausing to stare as us for a moment, before resuming its dance.   
  
The color of its skin resembles closely the color of the stones that make up the circle.  
  
(This can't be a coincidence.)  
  
Zkauba tosses some fungi into the water. We watch silently as the 'fish' tears its food to pieces before devouring it with the small mouths on the tips of its tentacles.   
  
“Old Yaddith’s waters used to be filled with these creatures.” Zkauba says. “The Tears of Yaddith – that is how they were called. Our legends tell of specimen that were thrice your size. They could survive on dry land for hours and sing beautifully for their mates – and this is all true, for the last Tear of Yaddith often pokes his head out of the water to hum. It is a sound as lovely as it is lonely.”   
  
I think I know where he's going, but I want to be sure, so I say nothing.  
  
“I have heard many curious stories – that their blood is incredibly nutritious, and that their rotting flesh has interesting medical properties… I cannot think of a more appropriate offering.”   
  
Neither can I.  
  
***  
  
Zkauba tells me that I’ll have to wait for everyone to gather around the circle to watch – something about community spirit and homage to the god I was about to summon.   
  
I tell Zkauba to fetch me a long stick and to keep the commoners the hell away from me.  
  
The Yaddithian returns with a short spear  
  
(which to be honest is even better than a stick – no need to get my knife all bloody),  
  
which I accept with some token muttering; it doesn’t really matter what I use. I can make a functioning magical circle with almost anything – sticks, knives, threads, rope...   
  
(With sand an’ with chalk, with blood, with all kinds of powders, even with crayons.)  
  
Zkauba turns out to be surprisingly dexterous – he manages to wrap the Tear in a blanket and carries it all the way to the stone circle. However, he refuses to enter until I've 'consecrated' it  
  
(whatever that's s'pposed to mean)  
  
so I’m forced to lug the ‘fish’ to its center myself.   
  
The second I touch the blanket, the stupid animal panics and starts twitching like crazy. It startles me and I drop it on the ground, where it continues to twitch and flop, as if trying to get as far away from me as possible. One well-aimed kick sends the ‘fish’ flying and it lands in the middle of the stone circle with a loud slap. Zkauba seems to be appalled, but his outrage is the last thing I care about right now.   
  
I take my place in the center and I drag the spear’s tip in the ash to draw a circle around the still twitching ‘fish’ and myself; I've never needed any instruments to draw a perfect shape – just a steady hand and a clear mind. I begin writing out the familiar symbols - scratch, scratch, jot. I whisper their names, like a mother waking up her sleeping child.  
  
(“Yer pa’s waitin’ fer us on the hill, Willy.”)  
  
(“Wait fer me, mommy!”)  
  
Zkauba watches from beyond the standing stones. One witness – that’s more than enough.  
  
For the second time today, I raise my head to look at the sky. It’s become purplish-grey – the night’s nearly upon us.   
  
I clutch the spear more comfortably and begin chanting. The air around me starts to clear up  
  
(clear up, clear up, clear like glass an’ jus’ as easy to break)  
  
and soon everything trembles – the ground beneath me and the stones around me and the sky above me   
  
(tear it apart, father, reach in, father, reach out, father, father, father)  
  
and if these symbols were on my skin, Zkauba would get to see the flesh of Yog-Sothoth as I’ve seen

(been)

it, but they’re written in ash and ash doesn’t bleed.  
  
(A butterfly flaps its wings. Father. A lightning-bolt splits into countless directions. Father. A window shatters.)  
  
A blinding light  
  
(sinks its teeth into everythin’ it touches)  
  
appears  
  
(reality’s like a piece o’ meat father)  
  
and I’ve picked the lock.  
  
Again.  
  
I jab the spear into the last Tear of Yaddith.  
  
***  
  
For you, father – this blood, this temple, this land, this world.  
  
 **I am the Key. I am the Gate. I accept.**  
  
***   
  
I leave the dead ‘fish’ and the remains of my magical circle for Zkauba to clean up – I’m way too pleased with myself to bother with such trivial matters. I wonder what my father’s changed about the universe this time – so far, he’s resurrected people, he’s kidnapped people from parallel universes, and he’s brought an entire planet from only-he-knows-where as a gift to a homeless race.  
  
(What I’m tryin’ to say is, it’s gotta be somethin’ ground-breakin’ to surprise me.)  
  
Zkauba stares at me wordlessly – his shiny black eyes follow my every movement, as if he expects me to attack him with the spear. I grin, to show that everything’s alright. Zkauba recoils   
  
(again)  
  
this time even taking a couple of steps back. The smile slides off my face like cold water.  
  
When he finally speaks, his buzzing voice is even, like the blade of a sword.  
  
“You said that the last Tear of Yaddith was going to be a symbolic sacrifice.”   
  
I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t it.  
  
“Symbolic.” Zkauba repeats.“I thought you were going to bless the last Tear and devote its existence – thus devoting the existence of all Yaddithians – to Yog-Sothoth.”   
  
I blink rapidly several times as realization dawns on me.  
  
(This idiot thought I was playin’ pretend.)  
  
“That’s precisely what I did.”   
  
If Zkauba's voice is like a sword, mine’s like a morning star.  
  
“I… my father…  _Yog-Sothoth_  gave ye a chance to save yer people from a life in exile, along with a planet the Dholes can no longer reach ye.”   
  
I understand why he's upset, but I’m not going to apologize.   
  
(I’m done with feelin’ regret.)  
  
“New Yaddith ain’t gonna be built on old fears an’ old tears.” It's a good explanation, but not good enough.

Zkauba walks up to me. He’s short and his cloak is old and worn, and he may be the leader of a race of beggars, but I still have to fight the urge to take a step back.  
  
“Is that what Yog-Sothoth wishes?” he asks me. “Truly? Is that what I must tell my people when they find the body of the last Tear in the ashes of their new temple?”  
  
I can say a simple ‘yes’ and be done with it. I can lie and then claim I speak the truth.   
  
I can, but I don’t.  
  
“Tell yer people that yer new god is distant an’ incomprehensible, an’ that ‘is Messenger's a jerk. ”  
  
Zkauba huffs. The sound is one of startled and bitter amusement.  
  
“And how is that any different from, say, the numerous cults that worship the Blind Idiot God and the Crawling Chaos?” he asks.  
  
(Oh, no ye didn't!)  
  
I lower my head to get a good look at his face, and then I grin. He flinches yet again.   
  
(Like a trained animal.)  
  
“Oh, believe me, it’s very different – y’see,  _I’m_  bein’ honest ‘bout it.“  
  
(Compare me to the Crawlin' Chaos, eh?)   
  
(Fine, I'll be like the Crawlin' Chaos.)  
  
***   
  
In other news, Boris and I leave New Yaddith almost immediately.   
  
Needless to say, I don’t expect to be invited there again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm done with Zkauba and the surviving Yaddithians! They have their planet, they have a swanky new temple, they get their happy ending. *faints*


	5. Celaeno

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip**  
  
 **Chapter 4: Celaeno**  
  
 _The sad thing ‘bout life is that it ends all too soon; there’s so much to learn, so much to feel, so much to see – an’ there’s so little time. Death lurks behind ev’ry corner, desperation breathes down yer neck like a stubborn hound, an’ disappointments keep pilin’ up, like yellow leaves inna forgotten garden…_  
  
After the ‘fish fiasco’ on New Yaddith, I decide to visit the Great Library of Celaeno – do some reading to distract myself from the feelings of guilt and embarrassment.  
  
(stupid stupid stupid awful)  
  
I shouldn’t’ve told Zkauba so much; I should’ve kept him in the dark, where all good little pawns   
  
(like myself)  
  
belong. How’s he supposed to face his people now that he knows they’re just tools, stashed away till my father finds a use of them? As far as I know, Zkauba has stood before Yog-Sothoth only twice. My father’s many things  
  
(all things, ef the Necronomicon’s to be trusted)  
  
but he isn’t going to stoop to deception and empty promises. I try to console myself with the thought  
  
(the belief)  
  
that Yog-Sothoth isn’t a cruel god.   
  
My Byakhee – Boris – understands the reason behind the change in our plans; after all, it saw and heard what happened in the Temple of Nacre.   
  
(Wonder if Zkauba’s still gonna call it that; I was the one who suggested it.)  
  
Speaking of which, I really want to visit the Temple again, preferably after the Yaddithian wizards have tamed its energies – the soil on which it stands is like ash, the large stones glisten like a gaudy necklace, but the form’s familiar. It lacks an altar, but the Yaddithians don’t use altars and the Temple is, after all, for them to use.  
  
Boris was oddly quiet during our short stay on ‘the Great Bitten Fruit’, following me around like a lost kitten   
  
(didn’t dare enter the stone circle with me, though)  
  
and scaring the hell out of several Yaddithians - or locals, as I should probably call them now. Before we leave the atmosphere of New Yaddith, Boris finally squeaks a single word in broken Aklo – ‘malformed’.  
  
(I can relate.)  
  
***  
  
The Great Library of Celaeno is…   
  
(not what I expected)  
  
uh, the Library… well…  
  
(there’s surely been a mistake)  
  
I‘ve heard rumors of human scholars visiting this place after drinking some of that fabled ‘space mead’ to sharpen their weak senses and protect their frail bodies.  
  
(Sure, drink yerselves stupid ‘fore embarkin’ on an epic journey to ‘nother world. What can possibly go wrong?)  
  
I’ve heard rumors of an enormous building, where the stone tablets  
  
(an’ the secrets o’ the gods)   
  
are kept and where Byakhee prowl freely, guarding those tablets against the greedy touch of thieves.   
  
But the truth is  
  
(always ‘as been)  
  
far more fabulous than even the wildest of rumors.  
  
The Great Library is not just a library.   
  
It’s an entire planet.  
  
***  
  
We enter through one of the high windows and fly over vast aisles and corridors. It takes me a couple of minutes to notice the carvings on the walls and recognize the symbols –Aklo, of course – and to realize what that means.  
  
(A single colossal book.)   
  
(Its pages like a labyrinth.)  
  
(The kind where monsters are said to crawl ‘bout.)  
  
(Those mead-drinkin’ idiots ‘ave no idea what their ‘sharpened senses’ are missin’.)  
  
The place’s literally infested with Byakhee – the weird, ‘rotting’ colors of their bodies contrast sharply with the pale stones. They’re larger than Boris, with glossy skin – probably because of a steady diet of sticky-fingered visitors and infrequent ventures in outer space. Boris squeaks a greeting when we enter and several of them start following us.  
  
(Somethin’ tells me they’re not the type to peek over my shoulder an’ judge my readin’ choices, so I guess I’ll survive this time ‘round.)  
  
I can’t possibly keep track of all the twists and turns, but Boris seems to know where it’s going. And surely enough, when we land, one of the first words I recognize on the wall in front of me is the name of the being that sent Boris to me in the first place.  
  
Hastur.  
  
The Byakhee disappear as soon as my feet touch the ground, which is a bit odd, and Boris follows them, but not before giving me a light nudge – as if to say ‘go on, have fun’.  
  
I know myself well enough to know that I can spend the rest of eternity here if I manage to get distracted, so I scramble to find a way to measure time. I remember that Boris occasionally brings me its leftovers to eat – usually while they’re still bleeding. I decide to stay in the Library for ten feedings and then leave.   
  
When I begin to study the carved letters, I’m unpleasantly surprised to find several unknown symbols. It takes me a while to guess their meaning and piece together a coherent story, but I get used to ignoring these lapses fairly quickly. Once my brain  
  
(or whatever it is that I’ve got fer a brain)  
  
switches from English to Aklo, the essence of the passage soon becomes apparent.   
  
(Almost tangible.)   
  
It tells the story of Hastur and Cthulhu’s enmity; naturally, I follow the wall and thus the story with childish delight.   
  
(I see colors an’ hear sounds an’ think thoughts that aren’t ‘ere, aren’t mine.)  
  
(Aklo speaks back.)  
  
I realize that I’m reading it backwards, but that doesn’t stop me. The story of the gods’ feud soon changes – the patch of wall ends, and just around the corner, there are new carvings that tell the story of Hastur’s gradual rise to godhood, or whatever they call it  
  
(‘nother corner, ‘nother wall),  
  
and after  
  
(‘fore)  
  
that – the enslavement of Carcosa  
  
(‘nother corner),  
  
followed by a recount of Hastur’s early years   
  
(aeons)  
  
and a   
  
(unnecessarily detailed)  
  
description of its birth and conception, complete with mention of the proud parents. One of them is my own father and...  
  
(Wait.)  
  
I’ve reached a dead end. No more corners, just a long wall.  
  
(Wait, what’s happenin’?)  
  
I feel the shift in the story before I even look at the symbols. I’m already lost in the labyrinth of words and walls, but finding my way back seems like the least of my problems right now.   
  
I begin reading the story of my father’s banishment.   
  
***  
  
I’ve heard the legends  
  
(the fairy-tales, the speculations, the gossip)   
  
of a time  
  
(‘fore time as we know it existed)   
  
when the Blind Idiot God was neither blind nor an idiot  
  
(an’ a proper god, it seems),  
  
when my father was still part of the Court.  
  
 _This is to be said and remembered and kept away, for it should not be forgotten and it should not be spoken of._  
  
(So let’s jus’ write it down where anyone can read it.)  
  
(Anyone that matters, that is.)

 _The being Yog-Sothoth sprang forth from the Nameless Mist that embraces the Two Realms and the blessed Court_  
  
(a cruel flash of light in the primordial darkness)   
  
 _and the God_    
  
(Azathoth)   
  
 _saw that this was wise, for it is said that the being Yog-Sothoth is the Reflection of the Realms and the Destinies and the Archetypes, and the God kept the being Yog-Sothoth by Its side and saw Existence as it was, is and will be as it was Reflected._  
  
(mirror mirror in the abyss)  
  
 _Alas, the being Yog-Sothoth decided that Existence is imperfect, and it wished to change it in accordance to its Vision, and this was Blasphemy, for the God is said to be without a flaw. Yog-Sothoth sees All and knows All, but it does not understand All, and in its solitude it brought to life numerous foul things that were its disciples and its descendants and its instruments and sent them to do its bidding_  
  
(voices from the hills)   
  
 _and this was Blasphemy as well, and the Reflection was fractured and thus tainted._  
  
(broken mirror fer bad luck)  
  
 _And the God tore the being Yog-Sothoth away from the Existence and sent it to the Emptiness where nothing Exists – the Emptiness where there is nothing to Tamper with, where the being Yog-Sothoth shall be able to Rule and Create and Destroy and Change nothing else but itself. And after this was done, the God became Blind and Senseless, and the Soul of the God was also torn away and it became Madness and Freedom and Chaos.  
  
And the God made it so – the being Yog-Sothoth shall be incapable of leaving the Emptiness where nothing Exists, and the God made it so – Chaos shall reign supreme, and there shall be no Order nor Sanity nor Peace, and Chaos shall be Order and Order shall be Madness, until the End of Existence and the End of the God; and it is said  that all this was Reflected by the being Yog-Sothoth, who is said to be the Supreme Reflection of the Existence, and it is said that Yog-Sothoth refused to accept this and denies it still._  
  
(Order is Madness indeed, then.)  
  
(Oh look, a note.)  
  
 _Before the Exile, the being Yog-Sothoth mated with Shub-Nuggurath, and the All-Mother’s blessed wombs gave birth to many beings, who bid their parent farewell and swore to honor it, but not obey it. And this is also to be remembered and not to be spoken of._  
  
***  
  
I turn my back to the wall and try to leave  
  
(but where can I go)  
  
but I can’t. Not yet. Not yet.  
  
(Git a hold of yerself!)  
  
I lean on the wall, sinking to the ground. I can feel the words carved upon it descend upon me, sinking their edges and curves   
  
(nails an’ hooks)  
  
into my mind and filling it with their   
  
(poison)  
  
essence.  
  
Does Hastur know all this? Of course it does – the Library’s guards belong to a race that is well known for their loyalty to it.  
  
(An’ to some other beings, but those ain’t important right now.)  
  
Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter.   
  
(It’s useless.)  
  
Okay, first thing to do is… the cracks between the realms, the paths that lead to my father. I must find them  
  
(speak the Words, howl the Rites, ‘owever Alhazred phrased it)  
  
and shape them into something that can be used – the portal on Sentinel Hill is lost forever, desecrated by my brother’s death.   
  
And I’ve already found one such place – the Temple of Nacre on New Yaddith. It will never be a proper portal, but it’s better than nothing; it’s there.  
  
(Fer now.)  
  
The… the Old Ones, my father’s servants – they were useless; tools in the hands of a child. I’ll think about them later. To be honest, I haven’t thought about them for a very long time.   
  
Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. I’ll manage on my own.  
  
(I’ll think of somethin’.)  
  
I’ll let my father back in.   
  
As to what might happen afterwards...   
  
I don’t know. And I don’t care.   
  
***  
  
I whistle – a sharp sound that can kill lesser animals  
  
(or so Hastur claims)  
  
and Boris appears almost immediately – lands in front of me, as if it knows that I want nothing more than to leave this place.  
  
I pet its large muzzle and the Byakhee flinches.   
  
“When ye go back to yer master” I say as I climb on its back, “when ye go back to Carcosa, tell my sibling that I got the hint the first time. Tell Hastur that I didn’t swear anythin’ to anyone.” I pull the tentacle-reins and Boris prepares to take flight. “Tell Hastur that I didn’t have a choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wanted to make it clear once and for all what's the deal with Yog-Sothoth and the Whateleys in this crazy fanfic series that I've been writing for the better half of a year. 
> 
> As you know, the Whateley twins' story often parodies various scenes from the Bible and and Christian mythology.
> 
> (Twin's death and Jesus' crucifixion - both die on a hill while calling their godly fathers for help; Wilbur looking like Satan with his goatish good looks; also, Twin and Wilbur can be considered to be expies of Azathoth and Nyarlathotep, who in turn are an incomprehensible and distant god (kind of like the Christian god) and his Messenger (the word 'angel' means 'messenger') who in another story has an avatar that is the devil in all but name), etc.)
> 
> I took this idea and ran with it, making Yog a thinly-veiled expy of Lucifer, thus making Wilbur an expy of the Antichrist. :D 
> 
> Please note that I tried to stay away from Derleth's good vs. evil thing; as for the 'two or more factions of GOOs fighting each other' idea, that implies that the GOOs understand conflicts in the same way humans do - but we are yet to see anything like this in my fanfic, so I guess I'm in the clear (for now).


	6. Yuggoth

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip**  
  
Chapter 5: Yuggoth  
  
 _Mother used to tell me lots of stories when I was li’l. Strange stories… ‘bout faeries that come from the stars, an’ dogs that live in the corners, an’ a priest who lost a starin’ contest, an’ the yellow piper who made ev’ryone in the kingdom drown in the lake._  
  
 _The stories never ‘ad a proper endin’, or at least not a happy one._  
  
For some, this comes as a ‘mind-shattering revelation’.  
  
For others, it’s just another piece of drivel.   
  
For me, it’s a lesson I’ve been relearning all my life.   
  
Three things are certain - this isn’t a nice thing to know; it’s very impolite to bring it up in casual conversation; and being aware of it can be helpful when you lie dying on the floor.   
  
(D’ye really wanna know? Of course ye do.)

  
Here’s how it goes.  
  
In spite of all the gods and stars and dreams that live and thrive and die here, the universe is but an empty room, and we are nothing but dust and crumbs and ash, dancing in the air or rotting on the floor or stuck in unseen crevices.  
  
There’s only one being who can claim to know every proverbial nook and cranny, and it’s currently locked outside of it.  
  
(The door’s closed; let’s smash the window.)  
  
***  
  
I won’t be surprised if the Byakhee manage to outlive every other race in the long run – they are tough, fast and, most importantly, uncomplicated creatures. Also, they speak in broken Aklo, which is kind of adorable. A bit like those colorful exotic birds you can teach to swear.  
  
As endearing as they are, though, I’ve come to realize that I don’t want to depend on their wings to get from place to place, like a harebrained member of a shady cult. It’s not that I don’ trust the Byakhee, because I do. But I shouldn’t, and that’s the whole point.  
  
There’s got to be another way.  
  
(No, really, I can walk there, it’s not that far.)  
  
Silence and darkness surround  
  
(engulf)  
  
me, and I straighten my back, careful not to pull at the Byakhee’s tentacle-reins and upset it. My insides are churning, have been during the entire flight – they always do whenever I’m near one of the ley lines that streak this universe like veins. Back on Earth, I try to steer clear of them, at least until the stars are halfway right for my purposes and I can make use of the lines’ energies.   
  
Boris, my designated Byakhee, flaps its wings – a sign that it’s using a ‘shortcut’. I’m not quite sure how those work, but if my boiling guts are to be trusted, the ‘shortcuts’ are in some way connected to the ley lines, probably…   
  
(Wait.)  
  
Ley lines.   
  
Shortcuts.   
  
(Waitwaitwait.)  
  
All over the damn place.  
  
(Now there's an idea...)  
  
***  
  
I’ve visited Hastur in ‘lost’ Carcosa, skipped rocks in the Lake of Hali, and remembered to remember the god’s unspeakable name – the one it regrets to have ever revealed to the author of that brilliant, brilliant play. Wish I kept the copy, instead of handing it to Hastur as an offering; I doubt I’ll find another one on Earth that I can easily steal.   
  
(But on the other tentacle, I can misquote ‘The King in Yellow’ as much as I like, an’ nobody can tell me nothin’.)  
  
I’ve visited a strange planet called New Yaddith; something tells me the name will never catch on and it’ll be known forever as the Great Bitten Fruit it resembles. During my brief stay, I made a fool of myself while saddling a race of exiles and beggars with a temple they probably don’t like and a god that will demand more than they can give.  
  
(Good ol’ dad…)  
  
I’ve visited Celaeno, where I found something I wish I didn’t need.  
  
(An excuse.)   
  
I should be going home, but there are a couple of places I’d like to visit on my way back.  
  
***  
  
Boris the Byakhee’s finally stopped threatening to throw me off its back.  
  
In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t’ve called it a cowering nag. It’s not like I’m excited about our next stop, either, but the Whateleys’ unofficial motto is ‘if I can do it, I will do it’, and that’s not something I can argue about.  
  
(Mother, will ye tell me a story, please?)   
  
Yuggoth is a dark, scarred world – canyons and gorges streak its surface. I can see the Sun from here – it’s just a star, a bit brighter than the rest, but just as cold. The Byakhee doesn’t circle the planet once – it seems to know exactly where to go. It darts downwards as soon as we spot the planet’s largest city – a gnarled blemish that has spread over several valleys and precipices.   
  
(The one ‘bout the faeries that drowned in the river.)  
  
I notice the towers and the bridges – unnecessarily tall and wide, they seem to merge with the rock upon which they stand; before I know it, the city is above our heads and we’re flying over the rivers of black sludge that flow at the bottom of the precipice.  
  
I’ve heard little of the living fungi of Yuggoth,  
  
(the Abominable Ones)  
  
but I know one thing for certain -  
  
(Grandpa hated 'em)  
  
that they’ll worship almost anything, as long as they think they can benefit from the   
  
(abomination)  
  
deal.   
  
The Byakhee rises, as swift as a swallow, and I have to grip at the tentacle-reins. Several towers stand on the other side of the precipice. They look about as similar as the fingers of the human hand. Not a single bridge leads to them, which is a bit odd, and there’s something very wrong about their structure; it takes me a while to recognize the symbols that have dictated the shape of each tower.   
  
(Prayers set in stone.)   
  
If the central position and the truly monstrous size of her temple are any indication, Shub-Niggurath seems to be the fungi’s chief deity, which is actually very clever of them, all things considered. Naturally, the Crawling Chaos is present as well; in fact, its temple is the one that’s closest to the city – a titanic obelisk of glossy dark stone, its top crowned with a twisting spire that twinkles under the faint starlight. There’s a temple of Cthulhu  
  
(of fuckin’ course!)   
  
and a temple of Tsathoggua, if I’m not mistaken, and a seemingly deserted temple of an unknown being that appears to have been extraordinary unpleasant…   
  
Let’s just say there are a lot of temples here and leave it at that.     
  
Boris hurls itself upon a lone tower than stands somewhat away from the others, despite being much taller than most of them. The uppermost part with its narrow windows – windows that the other temples lack entirely, for some reason – reminds me of a bell tower. I’m not used to searching for hidden meanings in architecture, but I recognize its shape immediately – the twisted shape of the sound of my father’s name.   
  
We can’t find the entrance and we don’t have the time to look for it, so we sneak in through one of the windows. The Byakhee immediately huddles next to the wall, shivering. It looks absolutely wretched. I briefly wonder if there’s some sort of a conflict between them and the living fungi, only to remember that I didn’t spot anything that looked like it might be Hastur’s temple.  
  
(Huh, go figure.)  
  
I look around and the first thing I notice is the dust – so much dust, swept into small piles in the corners and into the seams between the tiles.   
  
(A forgotten road – paved an’ meant to last, now weeds grow where feet should tread.)  
  
It’s worse than my old house back in Dunwich; at least something actually lived there.  
  
The hall is enormous – much bigger than Hastur’s chambers, and just as empty. A single black stone, almost as tall as me, marks its center – the symbols of an unknown incantation are etched into its surface. A lone priest stands in front of it, its supposed back  
  
(yup, those’re wings alright)  
  
turned towards me. I make a couple of unsure steps, but the priest  
  
(so small, like a young hyuman)   
  
doesn’t notice me – it’s busy waving around its appendages like an idiot and flapping its wings in an odd rhythm. I don’t know what a seizure looks like, but the creature seems to be having one. Normally, I’d be the last person the judge others, but this is simply too grotesque to look at.  
  
Encouraged by the lack of guards and visible weapons, I step inside the ritual space – it’s not marked in any way, but I know where its boundaries lie, in more or less the same way I know where my elbows are. And of course, the second I cross the line, the energy harnessed by the priest’s rites attacks me – prickles on my fingertips, nibbles on my thoughts: who are you, what are you, why are you.   
  
I let it know.  
  
Soon enough, the temple recognizes me, welcomes me even – after all, we both belong to my father.   
  
The priest is alerted and turns to face me, despite having no discernible face. Its alien mind tries to envelop mine  
  
(start a conversation)  
  
and fails; quickly, as if to cover up a mistake, the creature bares it own thoughts before me, flapping its wings in an oddly apologetic manner. My own mind isn’t meant to connect with others, so whatever the priest does is of little use, but I can recognize some of the thinking patterns despite the haze.  
  
(Tall. Dark. Lean. Human. Unbound.)   
  
A mental checklist of sorts is being filled up.   
  
(Not human. Just barely.)  
  
The creature finally speaks up. Its voice is startlingly similar to that of Zkauba of Yaddith.  
  
“Nyarlathotep?” it buzzes.  
  
(This should flatter me; it doesn’t.)  
  
I’m not violent by nature, but the utterance another god’s name in the middle of my father’s temple really does it.  
  
Boris squeaks from its corner.  
  
I try not to step on the rapidly decomposing corpse as I make my way to the stone. I run my hands all over it, tracing the symbols with my fingertips. They light up, as if warmed by my touch – soft, colorless glow fills the ritual space, but the rest of the temple remains dark.   
  
I read the incantation once, then three more times to be completely sure that this isn’t a mistake.  
  
Page 751 of the complete edition of the Necronomicon. In Aklo. Here.   
  
It takes me about an hour to copy the entire text on three clean sheets of paper. I use a cheap notebook I bought on a whim before leaving Arkham and a pencil I once borrowed from Richard Pickman and never returned. I find myself whispering bits and pieces of the invocation as I write them down, drawing out the sounds.   
  
(Grandpa would’ve slapped me fer this.)   
  
The tremors begin; dust starts falling from the ceiling.   
  
The temple stirs awake.   
  
I should leave before the locals notice that something’s happening up here. I put away the notebook and the pencil, but I don’t move from my spot. Part of me – the reckless, arrogant part that breaks into libraries and feeds children to invisible monsters – wants to meet them, berate them. Take what’s left of the priest’s body and shove it in their not-faces. Luckily, this isn’t the part that calls the shots; and besides, the memory of being torn to pieces is still fresh in my mind.  
  
I hesitate, before reaching out to stroke the carvings one last time. Their sharp edges threaten to cut me, but the stone is surprisingly warm underneath my palm. I whisper my father’s name – a promise to be a good son and do my best.  
  
Blinding light fills the temple, like a flash of lightning, and its immediately followed by a deafening thunder. Everything turns into transparent, brittle glass. The floor moves beneath my feet, almost sending me to my knees, threatening to cave in – I can see the cracks grow, starting from underneath the carved stone.   
  
And then I hear the voices once again.   
  
Cajoling and cheering and crying and screaming, they are as emotionless as I remember them.   
  
(… and in its solitude it brought to life numerous foul things…)    
  
I listen to them, like the good son I promised to be.  
  
 **Th** e lin **es** …  **fol** low…  
  
… scra **pe** …  
  
Ther **e is a kn** ot…  
  
Cut…  **a k** not…  
  
F **ollow**  the li **ne** s…  
  
A knot,  **a knot** ,  **a**  knot, a kn **ot**.   
  
C **u** t. Scr **at** ch. Sc **ra** pe.  
  
 **T** here  **is**  a k **not**.  
  
Sc **rat** ch.  **Kil** l. S **c** rape. Ch **ew**. Cu **t**.   
  
C **an** ’t  **mis** s it.  
  
A  **k** no **t** …   
  
… l **in** es…  
  
Fo **ll** ow…  **c** ut.  
  
 **S** cr **ap** e.  
  
… t **he**  k **n** ot.  
  
 **C** ut… knot. Fo **llow the**  lines.  
  
Can’t m **iss i** t.  
  
BROTHER.  
  
I feel a caress on my hair – long fingers that aren’t really fingers.   
  
The light subsides gradually, returning to whatever   
  
(empty)  
  
place it came from, but some of it remains – long glowing tresses   
  
(tentacles)  
  
that caress the temple’s walls. There’s only a small pile of black sand now on the spot where the rock stood just a moment ago. The tresses reach out and touch it, bury their tips into it, and the sand moves slightly, as if there’s something buried underneath it…  
  
The Byakhee bites at my coat, pulling me towards the window. I pat its muzzle to assure it that everything’s under control.  
  
As we leave – out of the tower and into the abyss - I spot from afar the swarm of living fungi flocking to the temple, like a ship to a lighthouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilbur is a meanie-head and the author of this fic actually knows where it's going. 
> 
> The revelation came to me in two in the morning, and it was glorious. 
> 
> A friendly warning - we're not done with Yuggoth. Not yet. So be prepared. 
> 
> ***
> 
> What if I told you that I originally planned for Nyarlathotep to make an appearance in this chapter? :3


	7. Cxaxukluth

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip**  
  
 **Chapter 6: Cxaxukluth**  
  
 _When I was two years ol’, my brother got moved from the nasty ol’ tool-shed in the garden to the second floor of our house, in one o’ the bigger rooms. I remember that I was real happy when that happened, even though my brother was noisy an’ smelly an’ ate a lot an’ didn’t wanna learn English. I remember that I used to pick the lock o’ the room an’ go sleep next to it, always draggin’ along a blanket large enough fer both o’ us to huddle under.  
  
When I was fourteen, I moved my books an’ myself to the nasty ol’ tool-shed – there was no place in our house fer me, not a single room could be spared.   
  
‘Round that time my brother tried to eat me, jus’ like it ate our mother._  
  
Boris the Byakhee lets out a startled squeak when the ringing begins. It’s not a pleasant sound – it’s loud and insistent, reminding me of something between a gong and a horn. I can sense a rhythm to it, but we can’t stop to listen. By now, dozens, if not hundreds and thousands of the locals have been alerted that something’s afoot  
  
(amiss)  
  
in the temple of Yog-Sothoth; I wish I had more time to study the shifting lights and the black sand, but my father’s servants have never been known for discretion.  
  
(Twin was a fine example. Kinda funny, now that I think ‘bout it – despite bein’ invisible, my brother was the one who ‘ad to stay indoors an’ hide from the hyumans.)   
  
It’s too dangerous to leave Yuggoth now, when the skies are filled with living  
  
(an’ prob‘ly livid)   
  
fungi. Luckily, I spot a cave far ahead, on the left bank of the river of black sludge that flows through the gorge. I pull at Boris’ tentacle-reins. It appears to be thinking the same thing, since it doesn’t question my decision to change the direction.   
  
On the outside, the cave appears to be small – small enough to look inconspicuous. On the inside, however, it’s large enough for both of us to fit in. I keep my right hand pressed to the cave’s moist wall as I make my way into it, Boris crawling after me. The Byakhee nudges me to go faster every time I pause to inspect the uneven, slippery floor. Darkness soon envelopes my sight like a thick blanket – the exit’s far behind us.  
  
My fingers land on something soft and twitching.   
  
The ‘something’ snorts and moves slightly. I can’t see anything, but I  _can_  see the movement. The form it suggests reminds me of far too many things, none of which I want to be nearby: shoggoths; piles of rotting corpses; quicksand, for some reason; shoggoths; my brother’s leftovers; did I mention shoggots?  
  
“Insolent, foolish youth.” It gurgles in Aklo. Its pronunciation is impeccable. The voice, however, can only be described as hearing boiling water speak… while it’s being slowly poured into your ear.  
  
I take a few steps backward, until my back is pressed against Boris’ bowed muzzle. My companion is shivering. I’m willing to bet it’s never regretted another trip as much as it regrets this one.  
  
I remember my manners and bow as well.  
  
“I apologize fer the intrusion, Spawn of Azathoth. Didn’t know ye lived ‘ere.”  
  
Cxaxukluth snorts again - or rather, sniffles.  
  
“Maybe not as foolish as you look, but just as foolish as you act.”  
  
Cxaxukluth shifts in the darkness, as if to make itself more comfortable. I begin to suspect that it actually  _is_ the darkness. Can’t be sure though – I’ve never come across a decent description of it, and for a good reason, I guess.   
  
(Offspring of Azathoth, if I remember the ol’ texts correctly, an’ a grandfather of sorts of Tsathoggua. Also a hermit. An’ a cannibal.)   
  
(Jus’ my luck...)   
  
“Your fool of an uncle expected you to come to Yuggoth, Spawn of Yog-Sothoth.”  
  
I try not to blink.  
  
“Did ‘e?”  
  
(No surprise ‘ere. The Crawlin’ Chaos rarely hunts ‘is prey. Traps are more ‘is style.)  
  
Cxaxukluth purrs for a while, before deigning to continue our conversation.  
  
“Your fool of an uncle expected you to be noisy and boastful.” It finally gurgles.   
  
My ears twitch.  
  
“In other words, ‘e was hopin’ I’d humiliate myself.”  
  
I have to practically force my tail to behave. We do not hiss and spit in front of gods who have no issue with eating their own children.  
  
“It is known that the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth are shadows of shadows that have no place among proper beings.” Cxaxukluth purrs again. “We can argue what defines a proper being until the moment Azathoth unmakes the universe and rebuilds it from the leftover dust.”  
  
(Is this what walkin’ a tightrope feels like?)  
  
“I’d… rather not?”  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
Boris is still shaking slightly, like a nervous horse, but otherwise stands perfectly still and quiet. I, on the other tentacle, relax almost against my will. I might just be off the menu.  
  
“Your fool of an uncle dances and prances and talks my patience away whenever he gets bored enough to actually come to my vault.” Cxaxukluth murmurs. “He has the current inhabitants of this lump of rock do his bidding, and they are very obedient. Your moronic eldest sibling loathes them, but you hail from a pathetic world they seem to be fond of. Your fool of an uncle suspects that you might distract them from their duties to him, you with your approachable position and harmless ways. Yog-Sothoth offers truths, however contorted they are, and that is not an opportunity a feeble-minded race like theirs can decline easily.”  
  
(Yup, tightrope alright. With a vat o’ broken glass ‘stead of a safety net.)  
  
“I can never hope to be ‘is rival.” That’s absolutely true. “I came ‘ere outta curiosity an’...”  
  
Cxaxukluth shifts again. It’s not nice, seeing the pitch black darkness move. My eyes begin to ache, as if they’re trying to bury themselves deeper into my head and never come out.  
  
(Screw this, I wanna live!)  
  
“You let the Ancient Ones taste the air and touch the soil of this small lump of rock. They are familiar with it now. They will not forget it. I know what they are, I remember their stench and the sound of their steps. They are sick, broken, ugly things, and they seek to destroy everything and anything that is not like them. They chose to follow their master into the Void. They cannot choose to return.”  
  
(I swear, if I ‘ear this sermon one more time…)  
  
“Cannot, or should not?” I speak without thinking, and quickly add. “An’ fer the record, I don’t like ‘em either. Always gittin’ ‘tween me an’ my father...”  
  
My words are met with a loud snort of disgust. I flinch.  
  
“Your deluded father is not much better than his own sickening creations. However, he at least cannot bother us again, which makes him more tolerable than he truly is.”   
  
(Again with the... nevermind.)  
  
I sense movement – Cxaxukluth seems to slink back to whatever bottomless pit it rose from to meet me. The darkness clears and stops twitching.   
  
“Send my regards to my lazy grandson who resides on your pathetic world, and to my useless son who resides on Cykranosh.”  
  
(Suuure I will. No problem. An’ while I’m at it, I’ll also go visit a d-d-dog shelter.)  
  
“I’ll mention that I’ve been ‘ere, if I ever ‘ave the honor of meetin’ any of ‘em.” Am I polite or what?  
  
“You are somewhat clever, for an underdeveloped runt, but you are a fool nonetheless." Cxaxukluth is actually retreating; I’ve actually survived. "Now leave, leave and never come back, unless you grow to be as arrogant as the Crawling Chaos. I would have devoured him a long time ago, were his hide not so difficult to chew.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Tsathoggua's family turned out to be kind of cool. :P They're a bunch of moody hermits, really. I can totally relate to them. 
> 
> ***  
> This chapter is very short. But seriously, how do you write a scene that happens in total darkness?


	8. Cykranosh

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 7: Cykranosh**  
  
 _I’ve never been exiled to the Void. I’ve never laid half-dead ’neath the ocean, I’ve never hidden in forgotten caves or ancient lab’rinths, or inna rottin’ ol’ farmhouse. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, I’m still a prisoner - to the hyumans, to the vermin, to the cattle... Blind an’ deaf an’ dumb an’ scared as they are, an’ yet I’m the one who’s gotta lurk an’ crawl fer dear life…_  
  
  
 **Wal** k a **wa** y.  
  
(What was that??!)  
  
Yuggoth is already far   
  
…  **aw** ay…  
  
behind us, its inhabitants still blissfully unaware of my trespass  
  
(gawd, I hope so, make it so)   
  
and the Byakhee’s wings move frantically, as if the creature’s lost control over them; I know what’s on its mind. Hell,  _I_  can still see the slimy blackness that stirs and moves, and the more distance Boris puts between me and the Offspring of Azathoth, the more helpless I feel.   
  
(“Always meet ‘em ol’ bastards on yer own terms, Willy. Nuthin’ worse than s’prise visitors, lemme tell ye, heheh…”)  
  
I’ve already been at its mercy once, and I suspect I only got to keep all my limbs because Cxaxuklith wasn’t really hungry at the time; but what’s even worse, is the echo. That awful voice, like boiling water pouring into my ears… A part of me is screaming with relief that I can no longer hear it, and praying  
  
(is this ‘ow hyumans break is this why hyumans choose to die)  
  
that I never have to hear it again; the rest is busy getting back on its feet, so to speak, and now I’m repeating to myself the conversation we had in the caves of Yuggoth, plucking up words and pauses, moving them around and twisting them in search of… something, anything, I guess. A hint, a sign, a drop of knowledge; old habits die hard, reading is all I’ve ever done, and sometimes I like to think that the world is just a great big book for me to read until it falls apart.  
  
… w **alk**  wa **l** k  **w** a **lk** …  
  
(Huh… think I saw somethin’.)  
  
…  **al** on **e** …  
  
(Again with… ah, I see.)  
  
Wa **lk al** on **e**.  
  
(Fat chance o’ that happenin’.)   
  
(D’ye ‘ave any idea ‘ow far I am from home?)  
  
The Byakhee’s whole body is now trembling from the effort to maintain its breakneck speed. The darkness of outer space isn’t soothing in the least – with the corner of my eye I spot lightning bolts  
  
(hands)  
  
that aren’t really there  
  
(reach out try to touch grab strangle kill)   
  
and aren’t really made of light  
  
(father, I think I broke somethin’, father please)  
  
and the utter silence allows the voices in my head to ring loud and clear.   
  
 **Wa** lk  **w** al **k a** lo **n** e w **alk a** way wal **k**  al **one**  wal **k**  w **a** l **k**  wa **l** k a **way wal** k a **l** o **n** e…  
  
Now that I think about it, maybe I wouldn’t give half my tentacles to hear them again.   
  
My head feels light, but my body feels heavy and sore. When did I last sleep, anyway? Something in my eyes – dust or… try to blink it away, but my sight becomes even blurrier. My insides are a quivering mess that refuses to settle down – they boil and churn and…  
  
W **e**  s **ai** d…  
  
The Byakhee twitches violently, almost throwing me off its back, and starts to writhe, as if in unspeakable agony. This time I get a clear glimpse the lightning bolt and its shape – a shape I know almost as intimately as the lines on my palm – and I realize where it comes from.  
  
 **W** e  **s** aid,  **wa** l **k**  al **one**.  
  
(No, no, no, leave it be, it’s jus’ doin’ its job, don’t… )  
  
The tentacle-reins slip through my numb fingers and I    
  
… w **a** lk  **awa** y wa **lk a** lon **e** …  
  
fall off.  
  
***  
  
 **Th** ere i **s**  a k **no** t i **n**  th **e**  li **ne** s.  
  
***  
  
There is…  
  
(Father… father please, didja see what they did… No fair.)  
  
… a thread, and a path, and a wall. To grip, to walk, and to feel.   
  
One step, two steps, three…   
  
Edges. Corners. Angles.   
  
The shortcuts…  
  
… in the shadows…   
… between the worlds…  
… beneath the paths…   
… where the lines meet…   
… and crash…  
… and merge.  
  
(Places almos' as Empty.)  
  
… seven, eight, nine…  
  
(Mind the angles.)  
  
… seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…   
  
The freedom to walk is the freedom to fall is the freedom to keep walking till your feet bleed.  
  
I need to…  
  
… one hundred and eight...  
  
… send the regards…?   
  
(Sscykrrrranossshhh…)  
  
… nine hundred ninety nine…  
  
***  
  
C **u** t.  **Sc** ra **tc** h. S **c** ra **pe**.  
  
***  
  
I blink pathetically at the giant face above me. Hziulquoigmnzhah’s glossy eyes’re kind of sleepy-looking, but the wide mouth’s set in a hard line. Its fingers hover over me, as if debating whether to simply squish me like a bug or go the extra mile and gut me with one of its  
  
(ugh, visibly dull)  
  
claws. In the end, the god decides to gently poke me in my side – to see if I’m capable of any movement, I guess. I twitch my tail to   
  
(check if I can)   
  
show that I’m more or less fine. My limbs ache, the legs especially, and there’s a bad taste in my mouth, but I can think clearly and I can move and, importantly, I can speak.  
  
 **Shield me.**  
  
I only dare to whisper, but I hit the right tones. Faint color fills the air around me as I speak the Aklo word and reality reacts accordingly. Hziulquoigmnzhah gets the hint and removes its hand. That takes a while – the god has very long, very strong arms, in sharp contrast to its many ridiculously short legs.  
  
“You ought to be on your way soon, Spawn of Yog-Sothoth.” The god murmurs.  
  
It uses Aklo to address me, and its pronunciation is as impeccable as Cxaxukluth’s, but the voice is nothing like that of its parent   
  
(Key an’ Gate, thank ye!)   
  
and neither is its appearance; the overall shape reminds of the fur-covered Tsathoggua, or rather of the crude pictures I’ve seen of it in grandfather’s books.   
  
(“An’ Tsathoggua, Willy, is proper god, god with dignity an’ style, an’ real p’fessional to boot…”)   
  
I briefly wonder if Tsathoggua can do handstands too.  
  
Once the gigantic palm is out of my sight, I can see that the sky above us is an even greenish-black color, like a fine piece of velvet cloth. Cykranosh’s three rings embrace it like a silken sash. I turn my head to look at my surroundings. We are on the ashy shore of a glistening lake - it looks like mercury, but it’s not, and I know that because… because…  
  
Biting my lips, I remember crawling out of the shallow ‘waters’ of the lake, soaked to the proverbial bone and sputtering, just as Hziulquoigmnzhah was preparing to drink.  
  
So much for good first impressions.  
  
“’M sorry.” I manage to croak. “Gimme some time; hafta rest… I walked all th’way ‘ere fr’m…”  
  
“ _I am_  sorry.  _Give_  me some time; I  _need to_  rest… I walked all  _the way here from_ …” Hziulquoigmnzhah shakes its small head, like a woman shaking her earrings, and fold its numerous legs to sit down next to me while balancing expertly on its long hands. “You chew the words before spitting them out. Speak clearly, or do not speak at all.”  
  
I take a deep breath - the air is cold and smells a bit like sulphur – and I struggle to sit up; if I’m to have words with a god, I should at least straighten my back.   
  
“I’m willin’ to bet I still speak better than all yer priests.” It’s not an insult when it’s true.   
  
Hziulquoigmnzhah’s shiny yet sleepy eyes widen ever-so-slightly for a second, and then it blinks very, very slowly.  
  
“None of my priests can trace their ancestry back to Azathoth itself, unlike you and I.”  
  
The god has a point, so I kindly shut up, take off my shoes and start massaging my feet. They’re a bit swollen, as if I’ve walked for miles without stopping to rest. As I go about this, I consider Hziulquoigmnzhah’s words – it just admitted to being related to me, and it did so willingly; and if the old legend are indeed true, then Hziulquoigmnzhah and my father are cousins… of sort, which makes me its nephew... of sort.   
  
(Ev’ryone’s related an’ more or less willin’ to kill each other – jus’ like in good ol’ Dunwich.)  
  
I check the symbols I’ve drawn on my body – the lines are intact, but the ink’s become darker, almost black, while the skin around them looks pale and fragile.  
   
For some reason, Hziulquoigmnzhah feels the need to comment on the obvious.  
  
“Your flesh responds to the Speech in a curious way, and in turn the Speech responds to you.”  
  
“Well… I take after both my parents, y’see.”  
  
“ _I see_. How did you get here?”  
  
“Tol' ye already – I walked.”  
  
I spend some time making sure I can actually stand on my feet before attempting to rise – I’d rather not trip over my own tail, thank you very much, and especially not in front of a god who’s perfectly capable of walking on its hands. My limbs feel strong now – no signs of shaking or trembling; with some luck, I’ll manage to find shelter before collapsing again…  
  
“Did my nephew provide you with a gate, like he provided that sorcerer some time ago?”  
  
… and speaking of luck, my clothes are suspiciously dry. Didn’t I fall into the lake? Well, that’s unfamiliar substances to you – can never be sure what they do unless you spill some on your favorite shirt…   
  
“What sorcerer?”  
  
***  
  
I’ve heard the legend, of course – who hasn’t? The tale of Eibon, Hyperborean wizard and faithful servant of Tsathoggua, who had seemingly disappeared off the face of the Earth when his enemies finally cornered him…

… only to reappear on Cykranosh, at Hziulquoigmnzhah’s doorstep. That last part isn’t from the legend, though, but from the mouth of the god itself.   
  
“I told him to be on his way.”   
  
“Uh-huh, got it; which way are we talkin’ ‘bout, exactly?”  
  
The god shakes its head incredulously at me. It’s actually given up on correcting my accent. Unbelievable. I choose to count this as a small victory.   
  
“He died some time ago, along with many other creatures.”  
  
It’s not Eibon that I want to find, but rather his notes – provided that he wrote any during his exile, and at least some of them survived. It’d be crass to admit it, though, so I mumble something about honoring the memory of the sorcerer, yadda yadda, a great inspiration to us back Earth, and all that jazz.  
  
Hziulquoigmnzhah waves a long arm in the general direction of the hills that surround the lake, and I immediately spot the narrow opening between their slopes. I’ve got a list of questions a mile long, but I’ve annoyed the god enough already, and its hands are so very large, with long dull claws... Instead, I simply bow and promise to return with something to sacrifice.  
  
“An’ I’m awf’ly sorry ‘bout the lake.” I remember to add. “Didn’t mean to muddy up yer drinkin’ water.”  
  
Hziulquoigmnzhah waves its hand again, this time impatiently and in an almost panicky manner.   
  
“No sacrifices. No offerings. No prayers.”  
  
“Ye sure?”  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
“’Ow come? Ye retired or somethin’?” Tsathoggua is. Apparently, gods can and do get tired of being treated like… well, gods.  
  
Hziulquoigmnzhah waves its arm for the third time in the span of three minutes.  
  
“Be. On. Your. Way.”  
  
I’m tempted to mention daddy Cxaxukluth and its regards as a parting shot, but somehow manage to resist – Hziulquoigmnzhah seems like a decent enough fellow. Shouldn’t get on its bad side just because I can.   
  
I bow again and skedaddle.   
  
***  
  
I don’t dare whistle for the Byakhee to come and pick me up – after what happened on the shortcut, it might not be able  
  
(or willin’)   
  
to answer, so I do as my old friends – the voices – told me and start walking. Alone. 

The path looks downright ancient, with oddly-shaped cobblestones still visible here and there – remnants from a time when Hziulquoigmnzhah felt like dealing with its worshipers instead of waving them away. The ashen soil of Cykranosh tickles and soothes my tired feet. I stop every now and then to take a break.   
  
***   
  
I rather like the whispering crystal plants, even though they’re somewhat gaudy and creak unpleasantly whenever I pass too close.  _Get away_ , they seem to say,  _get the hell away_. They stop immediately after I touch one of them, causing the branch to shrivel and turn white.  
  
(How rude!)  
  
At first, I care very little about the forests of fungi, but then I remember New Yaddith and the dozens of samples in Zkauba’s laboratories. At least some of the species here should be good for eating, but I don’t feel like trying my luck. ‘Killed by a dog’ sounds like a pathetic way to die, but ‘died after eating strange mushrooms’ is downright embarrassing.  
  
***  
  
Many hours later, after nightfall, I reach the fungus-covered ruins of what by all signs had once been a sprawling city. Peace and quiet reign here, so I decide to stop for a while and get some much needed sleep.   
  
I end up wasting two Cykranoshian days among the rubble, but I find nothing useful – only chalk-like bricks and mortar dust, shards of broken pots and rusty tools, with the odd bone here and there. I come across a type of pale fungus that reminds me of the tiny parasol mushrooms I would often find in the woods near our old house; this one grows in small clusters and is tough to chew, but the taste is bearable. I eat and eat, until my jaws begin to hurt.  
  
(Mother used to make soup outta my finds. ‘Twas awful. Tasted like feet.)  
  
When I finally leave the ruins, I pass by a huge stone idol that resembles an obese, headless and strangely human-like figure. The rock is covered with countless scratches, some of them faint, others – disturbingly deep, as if left by a million small claws.  
  
***   
  
As someone who’s spent their childhood worshiping hills, I’m prone to think of mountains as promising places, so I head towards the nearest peak. By sunset I reach a long row of standing stones. Several winged creatures are perched upon them, but they take off before I manage to get a good look at them.   
  
Maybe there’s a reason I’ve not seen another living creature since Hziulquoigmnzhah.   
  
Maybe they saw me first.  
  
***   
  
Climbing’s never been much of a challenge for me, but I think myself lucky that there’s nobody around to make dumb jokes about mountain goats. Anyway, it’s a small mountain, and despite the cold air and the rocks I manage to get plenty of sleep.     
  
I pause for a break on the very top before beginning the slow climb down. The vast plain below me gapes like a monstrous wound, the lush forests of fungi remind me of scabs. A familiar sight greets me – the ruins of a city, and they aren’t too far away either.  
  
***  
  
Most of the buildings here are overgrown with pale fungi, but still have their roofs. And the furniture. After a minute of hesitation, I break into several houses.  
  
(Never felt like a thief before, why should I start now?)  
  
I find upturned tables and broken plates, peeling walls and open doors, larders filled with rotten sludge, a handful of clay figurines lying forgotten in a corner. But not a single bone, which leads me to think that the city was abandoned quickly and suddenly.   
  
Where did its people go, then?   
  
(“… died… along with many other creatures.” Hziulquoigmnzhah tol’ me.)   
  
Or rather, how far did they manage to go?  
  
The temple’s easy enough to find, and also a great disappointment. The main hall houses a gigantic image of Hziulquoigmnzhah – a curious thing that’s part mosaic, part stone carving – that’s placed above the main altar, along with several smaller, less interesting depictions of several other, less interesting gods in nearby alcoves. A crude stone idol of Tsathoggua stands in the middle of the temple, facing its uncle. I don’t notice the two human skulls in its feet immediately – I’m too busy searching for books, scrolls, anything that might contain a scrap of Eibon’s knowledge. I find nothing.   
  
(Guess ‘e ‘ad it all in ‘is head.)  
  
Damn it. Damn it all to the Void.  
  
I plop down on the floor next to Tsathoggua’s statue and have a brief staring contest with one of the skulls. Is it Eibon’s? Or the skull of the priest who followed him here? Does it even matter? All three of us are stuck on Cykranosh for the time being. Sure, I might have better chances of getting back home, but that’s a bit like saying that there’s a chance of Henry Armitage dying while I’m away – both are possible, but I shouldn’t count on either of them happening.  
  
Something mewled outside, not too far away from the temple – a lonely, shrill sound, like a nervously asked question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone should read The Door to Saturn by Clark Ashton Smith, because it's a flawless thing of beauty. 
> 
> ***  
> I can't really describe what happens to Wilbur in this chapter, but he's very graceful about it.


	9. Here There Be Cats

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 8: Here There Be Cats**  
  
 _Never been much fer pets. Wait, scratch that – never been much fer other livin’ beings in gen’ral. They take up too much space, each an’ ev’ry one of ‘em. My space, if I hafta be honest – my fields, my hills, my world.  
  
Wish I could make ‘em all go away..._  
  
I don’t even have to poke my head out of the temple to see them – the small company’s already gathered in front of the entrance.  
  
(Took ye long enough to find out I was ‘ere, though.)  
  
I should’ve closed the doors when I got in. Now it’s too late.  
  
(Don’t wanna seem rude. Don’t wanna upset the locals.)  
  
There are four of them; they’re about the size of lambs, with very long, very swishy tails and huge eyes. Their… leader, I guess… draws nearer, pausing inches away from the threshold. It’s larger than the other cats, with longer… well, not exactly fur, but it sure looks a lot like fur. Can’t quite make out the exact color of it either.   
  
The boss cat meows questioningly at me. Sounds a bit like a toddler’s cry, but the mouth it comes from is filled with needlelike teeth – more than two rows of them, in fact.   
    
(So that’s ‘ow we’re gonna play.)  
  
(Fine by me.)  
  
I get up from the floor slowly, making a show out of drawing myself up to my full height. The cats’ swishy tails stop swishing when my own tail-mouth gives a fake yawn, complete with some token hissing. It twists behind me like a snake in water as I walk up to the door. The cats have to crane their necks upwards to see my face.  
  
I cross my arms and tap my right foot a couple of times. One of the younger cats glances at it for a second.  
  
(Hah!)  
  
“Well?” I snap.   
  
(I’m gonna pretend I’m real busy, maybe that’ll make ‘em go away.)  
  
The boss cat meows again and sort of nods at the thin line where the ashen soil and the stone floor meet.   
  
“Can’t get in?” The cat glares at me; that encourages me to continue. “Shame – there’s a nice big statue over ‘ere ye might wanna sharpen yer claws on… “  
  
They hiss at my words, as if shushing me. The boss cat twitches its ears in irritation – or maybe in disgust? – before pointedly turning its back on me. The others follow suit and the company saunters away. I stare after the cats of Saturn until they disappear into one of the run-down buildings that surround the temple.   
  
(Better safe than sorry, eh?)  
  
***  
  
The door hinges look iffy – old and frail, and they squeak worse than a squashed mouse. Might break apart any minute now. I don’t dare close the doors, so I leave them wide open. So much for privacy; well, at least I’ll get enough light and fresh air.   
  
I’ve already searched the temple once and found nothing – no books, no scrolls, not even a squiggle on a shadowy wall – but I need to double-check every nook and cranny, just to be sure. I poke around the altars and even get on my knees to look under them. Finally, I catch myself attempting to pry up a suspicious-looking floor tile.   
  
(Yer turnin’ into one of ‘em panicky geezers that keep their books in the basement an’ check under their beds fer angry mobs with pitchforks. Not ev’ryone’s as smart as ye. Nor as stupid.)  
  
I move on to the two smaller rooms in the back of the hall. They’re closed, but not locked. One of them stores various   
  
(s’pposedly)  
  
sacred artifacts – a chest full of amulets, several rotting mantles in a corner, a gaudy crown-like hat, an even gaudier scepter-like stick, a set of filthy sacrificial bowls and blackened incense burners. By the time I’ve gone through everything, my clothes are covered with dust and grime.   
  
(Ugh.)  
  
The other room contains the local versions of a sweeping broom and a box of repair tools. Not a crumb of religion in sight, though.  
  
(Ye can talk back to the gods as much as ye like, even if they can ‘ear ye…  _’specially_  if they can hear ye… but talkin’ is one thing, an’ blasphemy’s quite a diff’rent matter.)  
  
I carry the tools to the other room and sweep up the floor of this one. Or at least try to – the broom quickly falls apart in my hands. Exasperating. I throw the pieces in the corner where the mantles rot, and after some thinking I grab one of the incense burners.   
  
After some more thinking I choose the two best-looking mantles and wrap the two human skulls with them. Never been one for necromancy   
  
(too crass)  
  
but I can think of at least three people who’d give me anything and everything for the chance to interrogate Eibon’s spirit.  
  
I retire to the now empty room. There’s barely enough room in it to swing a cat, but it’ll do. I can easily scratch the floor with my knife, but this place is not mine to change. I have some cord in my supplies – more than enough for a small circle.   
  
I also find a small package of herbs in the bottom of my satchel. Just in case, I remember thinking as I packed for my trip. I decide to use it all. One word – and the dried leaves are burning, filling the air with familiar smells.   
  
(Earthly smells.)  
  
I say the short invocation.   
  
(No need to risk with the long one, though I can’t wait to try it.)  
  
The words crawl up my throat and fly out through my mouth, and reality shifts to accommodate their meaning.  
  
For one absurd second, it feels like home.  
  
(Home?)  
  
***  
  
 **You seem to insist on upsetting my priests, killing things, and also on killing my priests whenever you find yourself in one of my temples.**  
  
(That creature was no proper priest, father. It said the wrong name.)  
  
 **And you spoke the wrong words. You almost destroyed the temples.**  
  
(An’ fer that I’m deeply sorr… Temple _ssss_ , father?)  
  
 **A life was ended in my name and by the hand of you who are mine. Your entire being shouted in a voice of triumph, and my temple responded, and there was a mighty echo.**  
  
(Ah…)  
  
 **Had you spoken each and every word, Yuggoth would have been cleansed – a rather useless endeavor, since I have other designs for that world.**  
  
(… Good thing I mumbled, then?)  
  
 **Yes. A good thing indeed. Now the people of Yuggoth believe that the stirring of the temple is a sign.**  
  
(Of what?)  
  
 **They are yet to decide. They are very pragmatic, these people.**  
  
(But ye already know what they’ll choose to b’lieve in, no?)  
  
 **Yes. The destroyed stone slab, the tremors, the lights, the missing priest – it is quite obvious.**  
  
(The Old Ones spoke to me again – twice, in fact. Tol’ me to cut a knot of some sort. Attacked the Byakhee I rode on. Rude.)  
  
 **You should note what my servants chose to say and do when they could.**  
  
(I think I ‘eard my brother callin’ me.)  
  
 **My servants saw an opportunity and took it. And so did I – because of your gaffe on the planet New Yaddith, I had to play the role of a considerate god. The people of New Yaddith will remember us until they all die.**  
  
(Wait, so the mumblin’ was really a good thing?)  
  
 **There is something to be said about your instincts, and about destiny too, but not by me.**  
  
(…Ye could’ve tol’ me to go straight to Yuggoth, y’know? I wasn’t gonna rest till I got my hands of that incantation.)  
  
 **We have had this conversation before. There is a time and there is a place for everything.**  
  
(An’ everythin’ ‘as its place an’ its time. I know, I remember… What’s gonna happen, then, when I go back to Earth an’ use the long invocation? )  
  
 **When you finally return to the temple in Dunwich, you will have found out the answer to this question.**

(Dunwich, eh?)

**Naturally.**

(Ef ye say so… )  
  
 **Send my regards to my wife.**  
  
(Will do. Anythin’ else?)  
  
 **From now on, you will not require a steed. You will use a guide, and you will use them once. After that, you will need a map. And then you will find the knot.**  
  
(Alright, can ye please tell what the hell’s this knot ev’ryone’s talkin’ ‘bout?)  
  
 **You will know when you find it. In the right time, in the right place.**  
  
(‘Ow’s Boris, by the way?)  
  
 **The Byakhee went back to Celaeno to resume its duties.**  
  
(Color me surprised.)  
  
***  
  
The cord goes back into the satchel, the incense burner is put back were it came from, and I force myself out of the temple and out on the empty streets. The silence’s a bit unnerving, especially now that I know what lurks among the ruins and the fungi.    
  
Randolph Carter once told me that 'a cat is not a pet but a companion' and that 'cats come when they want to and not when they’re called'.  
  
(An’ then ‘e’d start cooin’ like an ol’ spinster over a toddler, an’ the smarmy critters would flock to ‘im as if ‘e sweats milk an’ grows catnip in ‘is pockets.)  
  
I’m not about to start screeching ‘Heeere kitty-kitty!’ for everyone to hear – call me delusional, but I still have a shred of dignity to think of. So I start walking and I keep my eyes peeled for anything cat-shaped. With some luck, I’ll find them before they’ve found me. Nobody likes being crept upon, least of all us creepers.  
  
Several hours later, I return to the temple and of course, the not-so-little bastards are already there. I grind my teeth at the sight of their twisting tails. Wild-goose chase doesn’t even begin to cover it, but now isn’t the best time to go back to my old ways of animal mutilation.   
  
I walk over to the company, trying not to stomp my feet with every step. The boss cat turns to check who’s coming; its tail does an interesting twitch when it recognizes me. Then the boss cat does something rather odd – it nudges the others to step aside, as if to let me pass.  
  
I forget all about my anger when I see why they’ve gathered here yet again. There’s something inside the temple. Something with two legs and two arms and one head, something that barely reaches my knee but makes enough noise to wake the dead - like one of those wind-up toys you can tolerate for a minute or two at best before tossing it out of the window.  
  
The pygmy’s too busy mocking the cats – sticking out its tongue, pulling at its ears, the works – but the giggling quickly turns into a frightened yelp when I finally come into view. The creature tries to run and hide, but my legs are long and my tail even more so.  
  
I dangle the screaming pygmy over the cats’ heads. Fat drops of brown blood trickle down its small leg where my tail-mouth’s sunk its teeth.   
  
“Don’t say I’ve never done anythin’ nice fer ye.”   
  
I let the pygmy go.   
  
The cats’ve torn it to pieces in less than a second. Five pieces, to be exact.  
  
We eat in relative silence. The pygmy’s blood tastes slimy, yet strangely satisfying. Then again, it’s been days since I’ve eaten normal food.  
  
***  
  
I’ve folded Zkauba’s map so that only Saturn and Earth are visible – there’s no need for anyone to know where exactly I’ve been before arriving here.   
  
I crouch to show the map to the boss cat. Its ears twitch as it concentrates on the dots and symbols. A minute later, it places a paw on the dot that represents Saturn. Then it taps the dot that’s supposed to be Earth.   
  
The cat looks up at me and meows softly. I nod in response.  
  
“Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter mirrored Clark Ashton Smith's 'The Door to Saturn'. Can you guess which story - and which segment of it - this chapter is supposed to imitate?


	10. The Woods

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 9: The Woods**  
  
 _I learned of sacrifice when I was small. Grandfather didn’t explain anythin’ to me, an’ the books said nothin’ too, but I learned still, an’ prob’ly learned better than most. Sacrifice is the best cow from the herd, warm blood on the cold ground, no sleep tonight, the other children throwin’ stones at ye, nasty rumors ‘bout yer mother, take that book or die tryin’. Sacrifice is killin’ yer wife to sell yer daughter to yer god. Sacrifice is havin’ so little to give, ye end up givin’ ev’rythin’._  
  
 _Sacrifice is a nod – one life, pathetic an’ flawed._  
  
 _Sacrifice is a bow – one world, pathetic an’ flawless._  
  
It’s well known that cats are magic, though nobody can say why some cats are more magical than others. Well, Randolph Carter probably can; hell, he can probably write a whole essay about it. But he’s not here right now.   
  
The cats of Saturn are. Sure, I had to feed them first, but that’s besides the point.   
  
(Randolph Carter tol’ me once ‘bout that one time when a hundred cats of Ulthar rescued ‘im from the moon.)  
  
(I’ll get further than that, an’ with fewer cats.)  
  
(Hope I live long enough to rub it in ‘is face.)  
  
There are all kinds of secret paths, tunnels, cracks in the walls that lead from the Waking World to the Dreamlands – easier than falling asleep and harder than waking up.  
  
It’s well-know that cats go wherever they like.   
  
***  
  
There’s a dried-up well in one of the gardens – a simple hole in the ground, surrounded with rough-cut stones that barely reach my knees. A puddle of familiar-looking silverish liquid glistens at the bottom.   
  
One by one, the cats jump into the well. I hesitate at first, but then I recall how I ended up in Hziulquoigmnzhah’s lake.   
  
(So the shortcuts…)  
  
***  
  
(… lead to a sep’rate realm.)  
  
I’ve done this before.   
  
(The Place almos’ as Empty.)  
  
With Carter the Dreamer and Pickman the ghoul. They were my guides.   
  
And with Boris the Byakhee. It was my steed.   
  
And all alone. I was free…  
  
(to walk to fall to keep walkin’ till my feet bleed)   
  
… and I’m beginning to get used to it.  
  
Stronger feet, surer steps. Familiar angles – like a half-forgotten melody.   
  
(Please let me remember.)  
  
(Please.)  
  
I remember ancient paths and warm hands and warmer voices. I remember windows like broken teeth and a flying shadow with great wings. I remember the  
  
(Place almos’ as Empty)  
  
desert where beasts roam  
  
(belong)   
  
and as I remember it I realize that this is where I am and where I walk and where I feel awake for the first time since.  
  
(I keep walkin’.)  
  
***  
  
I raise my hand in front of my face and I can actually see it.  
  
The true shape. The perfect form.  
  
My own...  
  
(Let me stay like this.)  
  
(Please.)  
  
***  
  
The moonlit darkness and the sweetly repugnant smells of the forest embrace me out of nowhere and suddenly I’m choking on nothing but thin air and shadows. Home. I lean on the closest tree and press my face to the bark, half-embracing the trunk. It’s not much, but it’s home. My legs are trembling with exhaustion and I sink to the ground, stretching them out; I concentrate on my breathing – in and out, in and out.  The makeshift bag with the skulls of Eibon and the priest slips out of my grasp and lands next to me with a soft thud.   
  
The cats of Saturn approach me one by one so that I can pet them goodbye. It’s a rather sweet gesture, especially for creatures that can rip my arm off.   
  
And then, just like that, the cats are gone.   
  
I tense up; my ears twitch and my skin prickles with alarm. The smell grows stronger and makes me think of rotting corpses buried under piles of autumn leaves. There’s a rhythm to the gibberish of night sounds, as if the woods are singing.  
  
Something’s off.   
  
I spend a couple of minute peering into the darkness like a confused owl before I finally spot the large white stones that lie scattered among the trees.   
  
I’m in the forest near the village of Chesuncook, also known as the only place on Earth where the ley lines get in the way of magic rather than enhancing it, where you have you make sure you don’t go over a certain word count when using Aklo. This is all very well, if you’re one of the resident wizards – means you have very little competition to worry about; but if you’re just passing through, you’re screwed.   
  
( **You will use a guide** , father said...  **You will use them once** , father said...)  
  
I sigh, rolling my eyes, and I prepare to curse the overgrown furballs out. Really, what were they trying to prove by taking me here? That they can get places? Big deal, kitties. This is one unimpressed chimera…  
  
My mouth flies open and stays that way. My eyes remain locked to the sky.  
  
Something’s off indeed.   
  
The sky appears to be cloudy, but the clouds are red and twisted, and aren’t really clouds in the first place.  
  
***  
  
The trees’ lush crowns  are a bother, but I still manage to catch a glimpse of the constantly shifting shapes – enough to know if I’m walking in the right direction. Soon enough, I reach a painfully familiar clearing. The artificial cave where shoggoths were once kept is still here, but the previously bare rocks are now covered with moss, which makes the whole ensemble look like a very lumpy hill. Vines wrap around the ugly tree that grows above the cave’s entrance.   
  
(Looks much nicer this way, if I hafta be honest.)  
  
Shub-Niggurath looms over the clearing like an oncoming storm; her every movement produces sparks that are not really sparks but something else entirely  
  
(life)  
  
and she moves all the time – an utter mess of shapes and colors and sounds and smells and textures that assaults the senses and takes them hostage  
  
(worship)  
  
and I might’ve found a speck of this magnificence in the face of one Helen Vaughan,  but what’s the silent candle to the screaming sun? I hold my breath, and along with it I hold back a prayer.   
  
(All-Mother, I beg of ye, ‘ave mercy an’ chew quickly.)  
  
There’s a decently sized bonfire close to the spot where I almost died a couple of months ago.  
  
(I think?)    
  
The smoke is unnaturally red and thick; the All-Mother devours it as it goes up with her mout… with her nostr… with her lower orifices. Hard to tell where the smoke ends and she begins. There’s a mangled corpse among the flames – a black goat, I bet, soaked with oils and gutted while still alive.    
  
They dance around the fire – satyrs and witches alike. Their shrill laughter and breathy chanting mingle with the pitter-patter of bare feet and cloven hooves. Two of the satyrs play that weird flute of theirs, another beats a small drum; the noise these three manage to make is unbelievable. Everyone’s naked, and they all wear wreaths around their wrists and on their heads. The witches have wrapped their faces with slimy ‘ribbons’ made from goat-flesh.   
  
Neat.   
  
I step forward. The satyrs ignore me and the witches can’t see me, yet the dance changes without anybody pausing or even uttering a word. The chanting subsides to a soft murmur before picking up again. I pass them by; what I’m about to do is spectacularly rude and can get me torn to pieces, but I’ll be damned if I wait for their little orgy to be over so that I can speak to my step-mother.   
  
I raise my voice in a song of my own– a ritualistic greeting my grandfather was very fond of, what with him being a frail human and all.   
  
(Couldn’t hit all the right notes, poor soul, but taught me well.)  
  
The bonfire sputters cinders and spews out smoke, like blood spurting out of a slit throat. A tide of red fog spreads over the ground, only to rise up and swallow me whole; it reeks of burning meat and sage. The All-Mother reaches down with long tendrils that are simultaneously hands and tentacles and tongues and tails and tresses of hair and father knows what else.   
  
Okay, got her attention. Now what?  
  
“I hate to show up uninvited an’ empty-handed… “ I bow my head in exaggerated shame, “an’ I hate t’interrupt, but I was in such a hurry to get ‘ere... Yog-Sothoth sends ‘is regards.”   
  
I speak in Aklo, and the All-Mother replies in the same way. Hearing her voice is like seeing a heart beat.   
  
Loudly.  
  
“SPAWN.  YOU ARE WEARY.”  
  
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.   
  
“Jus’ a li’l…”   
  
“YOUR GROWTH HAS STOPPED.”  
  
“Not entirely… I mean, I can heal an’ stuff…”   
  
“YOU ARE A MESS.”  
  
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I jus’ came back from Saturn, didn’t have any time to wash up.”   
  
The satyrs’ singing grows louder and louder, until it borders on hysterical. They’re practically stomping their feet now, as if attempting to drown out my conversation with their goddess. The witches, on the other hand, slow down to a lazy waltz and start humming.    
  
(Jus’ like Helen Vaughan when she tried teachin’ me ‘ow to dance.)   
  
I can count them through the veil of red smoke – nine satyrs and three witches. How quaint.  
  
“COME CLOSER. LET ME CLEAN YOU.”  
  
The tendrils envelop me and start dabbing at my face, wrists and ankles, brush against my knees and the length of my tail, crawl underneath my collar to get at the shoulders. I try not to shudder as the All-Mother peels off the skin along with the symbols I’ve drawn on it. My flesh sizzles and crackles under her touch, dies and grows anew.   
  
“THERE WILL BE SCARS. THAT IS THE POINT. CRUDE AND PERMANENT. BETTER.”  
  
“I… thank ye, ma’am.” I don’t know what else to say, so I nod again, this time with real respect.  
  
(She can skin me alive like it’s nobody’s business.)  
  
“YOU SHOULD HAVE USED STARBLOOD. DO YOU KNOW WHAT STARBLOOD IS?”  
  
“‘Fraid not, ma’am.”  
  
“IT LOOKS LIKE THIS.”

  
Shub-Niggurath waves a single tendril in front of my eyes and it changes color into something indescribable.  
  
“STARBLOOD COMES FROM THESE ESTRANGED CHILDREN OF MINE. THEY LIVE IN THE AETHER BETWEEN THE STARS. THEY CRAVE EMPTINESS AND HOLLOWNESS. THEY ONLY STOP TO DIE AND REST BEFORE THEY GIVE BIRTH TO THEMSELVES. THEIR SHAPE IS A SHAM, BUT THEIR BLOOD IS MY BLOOD AND THUS ETERNAL.”  
  
“I’ll remember this, ma’am.”   
  
“TO TAKE THE BLOOD, YOU MUST FIND ONE BEFORE IT DIES AND FALLS ASLEEP. THEN YOU GRASP IT AND YOU HOLD IT AND YOU KILL IT. LIKE SO.”  
  
Shub-Niggurath twists the tendril several times, as if to make sure I’ve understood. I half-heartedly repeat the motion with my own hands, just to show that I’m not that hopeless. There’s a reason I’ve never heard of this ‘starblood’, and it’s probably a good reason too, but let’s pretend I might actually need to know this.   
  
“Thank ye, ma’am, once again.”  
  
(Welp, ye learn somethin’ new ev’ry day.)  
  
“YOUR MANNERS ARE LACKING. YOU REMIND ME OF YOUR FATHER.”  
  
I’ve always liked Shub-Niggurath, in the same flighty way people like distant and even nonexistent things. I lift up my head to grin at the constantly-shifting shape above me.   
  
“YOUR FATHER IS MY HUSBAND. YOU KNOW THAT, YES?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am.”   
  
“I HAVE MANY CONSORTS, BUT ONLY ONE HUSBAND. I HAVE MANY CHILDREN, AND ALL CHILDREN ARE MINE.”  
  
“Yer worshiped by all that lives an’ dies.”   
  
“I AM THE MOTHER WHO DEVOURS HER CHILDREN AND GIVES BIRTH TO THEM ANEW.”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“REMEMBER THAT. REMEMBER ME.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“YOU WILL. SPEAKING OF WHICH, WHO CHOSE YOUR NAME?”  
  
I laugh out loud.   
  
“My hyuman mother. She got to name me, an’ father got to name Twin.”  
  
“WHAT NAME DID MY HUSBAND CHOOSE FOR YOUR TWIN?”  
  
“Already tol’ ye, ma’am – it’s Twin.”  
  
“TYPICAL FOR HIM, REALLY...”  
  
The All-Mother purrs and croons. The red smoke settles down and spreads over the entire clearing. The bonfire goes back to it’s normal sacrificial self. Shub-Niggurath retreats to the heavens. Our conversation seems to be over.  
  
I get ready to leave;  the new patches of skin feel smooth and hurt a little when I trace them with my fingers. I know the way to the village of Chesuncook, and from there I can walk to the city of Augusta – shouldn’t take me more than a week, and that’s if I get plenty of rest – and from Augusta to Boston is  about five days. But first, I have to find a clear patch of sky and do some star-gazing...    
  
A sudden awful howl startles me and stops me dead in my tracks. The three witches fall on their knees and start writhing violently. Their wailing reminds me of scared jackals and foxes in heat. The satyrs dance in circles around the women, who try to catch and pull them down. The witches tear off chunks of fur from their thighs, scratch them with their nails and throw fistfuls of moss and soil in their grinning faces. One of the witches lunges at one of the satyrs and topples him over.  She looks much stronger than the others, and filthier too – as if she’s gutted the sacrificial goat with her bare hands. Her ‘blindfold’ is askew – enough for a demented eye to peer over and meet my gaze.   
  
“Happy Lammas!” she screams at me and laughs like a drain.   
  
I laugh along and shake my head as I leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which our villainous protagonist crashes an orgy in the forest. Well, at least now he doesn't have to buy a newspaper to know the date. 
> 
> The witches are kind of important, btw. *coughs* As in, they have names. And we may or may not learn more about them some other time... insomeotherfanfic.
> 
> EDIT: Shub-Niggurath's red color is owed to KifkeyKrunchies' fantastic interpretation of her. :D


	11. The Graveyard

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 10: The Graveyard**  
  
 _Mother taught me well, an’ she taught me lots, even though she didn’t know she was teachin’, an’ I didn’t know I was learnin’.  
  
My mother, she liked to see the world diff’rently – liked to see more ‘stead of less, an’ she liked to see less ‘stead of more. She taught me this, an’ she taught me to close my eyes an’ hum, taught me to stare an’ never blink, taught me to chew the world into pieces till all was slimy dust._  
  
I walk a whole mile  
  
(count my steps)  
  
until I decide I’ve put enough distance between myself and the orgy.  
  
(Ew, ew, ew!)  
  
(Good thing I left early.)  
  
On a less yucky note, I should probably tell Ephraim Waite that Chesuncook’s under new management, now that his cult is no more and the land’s up grabs – maybe write him a letter or something. But that’s not my main concern; I could care less about Ephraim. Right now, I’m more worried that one of the witches saw me, and that she saw enough to give her pause.  
  
There’s no way she mistook me for a satyr, but her cheerful greeting  
  
(“Happy Lammas!”)   
  
gives me hope – perhaps she mistook me for something else, something she’s seen before.  
  
(Wouldn’t be the first time.)  
  
The waters of Chesuncook Lake glisten under the half moon – third quarter, in fact. I calculate that the autumnal equinox and September’s full moon will be just one day apart. There’s a hand-drawn map in my satchel of Earth’s ley lines, but right off the top of my head I can think of at least several places that will be on fire this autumn, if I have any say in the matter…  
  
The village shouldn’t be too far away from here, but I’m not sure if I even want to go there, except maybe to buy a newspaper and some gum...  
  
I sit on the pebbled shore and wrap myself with my tail.   
  
(Circle.)  
  
I feel tired, but I don’t feel like sleeping.  I spent nearly a month away from  
  
(home)   
  
this world, and I managed to survive – unlike the first time I left Dunwich. I marvel at my wholeness, at my luck. Perhaps there really is something to be said about my destiny.  
  
(Purpose, ye mean.)  
  
And yet…   
  
Thrice   
  
(Hastur)  
  
I was   
  
(Celaeno)  
  
told  
  
(Cxaxukluth)  
  
that my purpose will never be fulfilled.   
  
Believing in gods is childish, but trusting gods is downright foolish.   
  
And yet…  
  
(What?)  
  
The mindless, meaningful stars above me seem to blink in confusion. Seems that we’ll be blinking at each other all night long. The lake sighs and the forest hums, and I soon join them.  
  
***  
  
I actually manage to doze off for a couple of hours, waking up just in time for the sunrise. The sky is red, like blood and fire and sacrifice, and there’s an odd pattern to the clouds, like the footprints of a giant goat.   
  
(Red sky in the mornin’-  shepherds' warnin’.)   
  
I sit up and stretch, and then I notice the scars on my hands – thin lines of new flesh instead of inked symbols, just a tad lighter than the rest of my skin, smooth and startlingly cold to the touch. I trace the familiar shapes with my fingers and think about Shub-Niggurath and her motherly instincts.   
  
(C’mere, let me clean ye up… by peelin’ off yer filthy skin!... )  
  
(The joys of bein’ a stepchild, I guess.)   
  
I bathe in the lake, then I wash my clothes. Everything should be dry in a couple of hours – meaning I’ve plenty of time to do something about my tangled hair.   
  
***  
  
Lammas Night marked ten years since my grandfather’s death  
  
(“Grandpa, look at me now!”)  
  
and tonight marks six years since my own death.   
  
Tonight also marks my seventeenth year as a living, breathing, thinking creature. I was born on Candlemas, and I was brought back to life on Candlemas, but every new year for me begins and ends on the night I died.  
  
This is a good   
  
(dark)  
  
night, and the shore of Caribou Lake is a good   
  
(weak)  
  
place.   
  
Or so the stars and their angles tell me.  
  
(It’s back to the ol’ grind.)  
  
***  
  
I draw a small circle, not much larger than my palm.   
  
(The Court. The center, the heart, the source.)  
  
I draw two other circles around it. They’re supposed to overlap, I think.  
  
(The Dreamlands. The Wakin’ World.)  
  
I hesitate.  
  
(The ley lines are… numerous. They hold ev’rythin’ up, an’ they keep it apart. Veins. Strings. Streams.)  
  
I touch the unmarred sand around the crude sketch.  
  
(The Place almos’ as Empty. Close to the Void. Close to ye. But not close enough.)  
  
I bite my lip.  
  
(There are paths in there, an’ portals, an’ that desert... The distances mean nothing, if ye know where yer goin’. Not like ‘ere.)  
  
***  
  
 **It is far from accurate.**  
  
(Tell me ‘bout it – like callin’ a pile of bones a whole person.”)  
  
 **It is very, very far from accurate. But useful, at least for your purposes.**  
  
(That’s… good, I s’ppose.)  
  
 **And also expected. Your mother would have tried to draw a map of the universe, had she traveled more.**  
  
(If by ‘more’ ye mean ‘at all’… Huh. Anyway, a couple o’ months ago, ye tol’ me that ye hafta be invited in first, ‘fore ye get to meddle. But that’s not the end o’ it, is it? That’s jus’ the beginning.)  
  
 **Hastur has always been… prone… to drama.**  
  
(It ain’t just Hastur… They all seem to fear ye. They all seem to hate ye. They say ye can’t come back. They say ye shouldn’t come back.)  
  
 **They know little. They see even less.**  
  
(Speakin’ o’ which…)   
  
 **They deserve me. They need me.**  
  
(… ye gotta tell me what exactly I’m s’pposed to be doin’.)  
  
 **That is absolutely out of the question.**  
  
(Oh, come on! I feel like I’m runnin’ in the dark.)   
  
 **And yet you fare much better now than you did the first time when you had it all spelled out.**  
  
(Only ‘cause I got mauled by a d-d-dog…)  
  
 **Because you were arrogant and careless.**  
  
(… an’... an' the revolver got jammed!)  
  
 **The cartridge was dented.**  
  
(Same difference!!)  
  
***  
  
I walk fast, but not fast enough.   
  
(More than two weeks till Boston, then.)  
  
The paths I choose aren’t paths at all, but I meet no humans and that’s enough for me. I study my maps, and I follow the ley lines, and I calculate the points where the lines should meet and crash and merge, but I come across no shortcuts.   
  
I eat little, mostly birds and rodents, but sleep a lot – from sunrise till sunset, and the nights are short… I gaze at the stars, and I try not to think of the creatures that live out there.   
  
(Away from ‘ere.)  
  
***  
  
I arrive in Boston at midnight, with the waxing moon high above my head, a pair of ancient skulls in my hands, a priceless satchel on my hip, and sparrow meat in my mouth. My mood is beyond foul, and not just because I have to cross half the city to reach Copp’s Hill Burying Ground – my chances of coming across any ghouls tonight are slim. I can still leave them a message, but will I receive an answer?  
  
(What’s the point of prayin’ to the all-knowin’ god, if the all-knowin’ god doesn’t say a word?)  
  
It’s almost five in the morning when I finally climb over the wrought iron fence. Nighttime Boston reminds me of a person talking in their sleep, but once my feet touch the graveyard’s soil, all noises disappear. For one long second, I feel safe, despite being surrounded by humans,  
  
(both dead an’ alive)  
  
and then I remember to feel stupid.   
  
I used to live next door to a ghoul. I should damn well know what they sound like. Or rather, I should know what they don’t sound like. They can be very quiet when they're hungry.  
  
I stalk down the paths between the rows of graves, not quite sure where the lack of noise comes from. The graveyard has more shadows than headstones, despite the lampposts just outside the fence. I walk over to the tomb from whence I crawled nearly seventeen months ago, with the help of Pickman the ghoul and Carter the Dreamer, but the massive stone lid lies in its proper place.  
  
Dammit. Guess I’ll have to resort to threats.  
  
I whistle ‘Shave and a Hair Cut’, and promptly get scolded.  
  
“Hey! Keep it down!”   
  
“Do you want the watchman to hear you?”   
  
“Go find your own cemetery!”  
  
“Two bits!”  
  
***  
  
The ghouls surround me not unlike a pack of dogs, but it soon becomes clear that they’re more afraid of me than I am of them.  Maybe it’s because of the height difference.  
  
(Well, that or the tail-mouth.)  
  
They’re skinny creatures, pale and covered with nasty-looking fuzz that looks like bread mold, with big eyes and bigger mouths. Their whispers fill the air and create the illusion of a single hissing voice that prattles on and on, without pausing to draw breath.  
  
“Pickman, eh?”   
  
“The one who used to follow us around with that… that…  _chamber_ , was it?”  
  
“I think it was called  _camera_.”  
  
“Right, what did I say?”  
  
“I thought he went back to being a human.”  
  
“I thought he went back to Pnath.”  
  
“He’s never mentioned you.”   
  
“He’s never showed us your picture.”  
  
I’ve always liked Richard Pickman, but like is not the same as tolerate for long. I wait for the ghouls to shut up before I speak, and try not to grimace.  
  
“Well ‘e never mentioned any of ye either.”  
  
I give them a little smile. The ghouls consider me for a moment, and I consider them in turn – a dozen ghostly faces, half-hidden behind the old gravestones, a dozen pairs of glowing eyes and five times as many claws – and then the ghouls practically erupt. Their ‘voice’ begins to crack.  
  
“And why should he?”   
  
“You wizards have no business with us!”   
  
“Correction – you humans have no business with us!”  
  
“Does that look like a human to you?”  
  
“Well if you squint…”  
  
“You wizards make a mess wherever you go…”  
  
“… digging up graves and leaving them like that…”  
  
“… and then they put watchmen near the graveyards…”   
  
“… and in the end it’s we who go hungry because you wizards can’t put things back where you found them…”  
  
“Why are you here, anyway? What do you want from us?”  
  
I tell them.  
  
***  
  
The ghouls stare at me incredulously. They probably think I’m joking.   
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
“You can’t be serious.”  
  
“Nobody’s ever heard of a map like this...”  
  
“Nobody’s ever  _thought_  of making a map...”  
  
I raise my hand and they all fall silent.   
  
(Git their eyes, then git their minds, an’ soon ye'll 'ave 'em jumpin' through hoops.)  
  
“Look, I only wanna know where the portals are. I can deal with the paths beyond jus' fine… The portals, on the other tentacle? Are a bitch to find. That’s all I want. Jus’ say what ye want in exchange an’ I’ll see that ye git it.”  
  
The ghouls exchange looks. That takes a while, but I can wait. After all, I’m not the one who has to scram before the sun rises and the humans wake up.   
  
Finally, they seem to reach an agreement.   
  
“We need time.”  
  
“We need incentive.”  
  
“We need a wizard.”  
  
I cross my arms and grin from ear to ear.   
  
“Do ye now?”  
  
The ghouls grin back.  
  
“What else can beat another wizard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter practically wrote by itself, but mainly because I didn't want to tear bits and pieces from the next one just to fluff this one up.
> 
> On an unrelated note, I feel that I should write more ghouls! :D Ghouls r funnn~ 
> 
> On an even more unrelated note, Wilbur forgot that August 5th is Helen's birthday. :P But I guess it's kind of understandable, since it's so close to the anniversary of his own death... exceptnotreallyitisn'tyoudork.


	12. The Necromancer

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 11: The Necromancer**  
  
 _Go an’ ask ev’ry wizard ye can find. Don’t bother knockin’, jus’ barge in an’ ask away. Ask ‘em one simple question - what’s magic?  
  
Simple question, with a simple answer.   
  
Magic is doin’ right thing in the right place at the right time.  
  
... or so my father says, which should be good enough fer ev’rybody._  
  
The wrought iron fence separates the graveyard and the street not unlike a barred cage. The ghouls dare not cross it – or rather,  _can_ not, since it’s high and kind of spiky – but they follow me all the way to it like babbling shadows. They walk fast, sometimes on two legs, sometimes on all fours. Dawn'll break soon, so we have to be quick.  
  
The wizard lives not very far away from here, the ghouls tell me, and mention an address they overheard nearly a moon ago, when they got to watch him deal with a pesky accomplice.   
  
The two were arguing – loudly – over an open grave, with a sack of bones at their feet. Harsh words were exchanged – words like ‘money’ and ‘now’ and ‘creepy house’ and ‘not going back there’. The wizard’s idea of a sharp retort turned out to be a spell – an old curse which made the air foul and bitter. Then he simply shoved his accomplice down and into the empty coffin, where the man lay as still as the bones he'd helped dig out, while the wizard nailed the lid and shoveled dirt onto it until the grave looked presentable again. The screams began about an hour later.    
  
I whistle quietly. Got to admit – the fellow’s got skills.   
  
“Anythin’ else I should know ‘bout this guy? ’Sides that ‘e’s stingy as hell?”  
  
The ghouls exchange looks. They’re a fairly bright bunch, but ghouls tend to see things a bit differently.    
  
“Very old, for a human.”  
  
“Light hair.”  
  
“Light body.”  
  
“Reeks of cobwebs, of blood, of salt.”  
  
That’s not very useful, and I tell them so. The ghouls all shrug like one. Their ‘voice’ is about to give me a headache.   
  
“It’s not as if we ever invite him over for coffee, you know?”  
  
“It’s been more than a century since he last came here.”   
  
“People change.”  
  
“He’s still a pest, though.”  
  
“A human child was killed in Dorchester two moons ago. A little human boy.”   
  
“There is something very, very wrong with your kind…”  
  
“Must have been him.”  
  
“Nobody else would have dared.”  
  
(Never ‘ad much respect fer necromancers, but there’s always a first time.)  
  
***  
  
I reach the house just as dawn begins to creep over Boston, filling the streets with light and life. Good thing I walk fast – chattering human crowds tend to get underfoot. Still, I manage to scare badly at least four early risers on their way to wherever. One of them makes a funny noise and trips when I laugh behind his back.   
  
Call me petty, but the sight of their pale faces really helps brighten my mood.   
  
Anyway, back to work.  
  
There are houses on both sides of the street, but the wizard’s home stands out like a rotten tooth.   
  
(As it should.)  
  
The building itself looks perfectly ordinary, if a bit neglected. The facade could use some paint, and the garden could use a controlled fire, but the windows aren’t boarded up and the front path is clear.   
  
Something’s off, though. There’s a small pile of newspapers on the door mat – at least three or four, and a dozen bottles of milk. Either they forgot to cancel their orders, or they had to leave quickly.  
  
 _If_  they managed to leave, that is.  
  
I suck my teeth. This might be easier than I dared to expect.   
  
***  
  
(Easier, my tail. Mouth. Tail-mouth.)   
  
(Agh, whatever.)  
  
Two hours later, I’m climbing down the chimney like a soft drink mascot.  
  
(Ye know the one.)   
  
I bet this place hasn’t been visited by a chimney sweep since the war. Thank my father for giving me a soft body to warp and no bones to break.   
  
Apparently, Mr. Wizard McStingy was clever  
  
(wary)  
  
enough to carve symbols of protection above every entrance of the house. I consider myself lucky that I felt them before breaking a window to let myself in; bad things might’ve happened.   
  
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I manage to squeeze my way into the fireplace and crawl out of it without making a mess.  
  
(Ugh.)  
  
(Never felt so filthy in my entire life.)  
  
The house is quiet.   
  
Too quiet, and dark, and surprisingly cold.   
  
I’d say that I’ve happened upon the living room, if this place didn’t look and smell like a tomb. The wallpaper’s spotty with mould, and something’s been chewing on the carpet. There’s dust everywhere, even on the cobwebs. Only the couch and the armchair look like they’re being used regularly; their stuffing’s poking out and there’s a large dark stain on one of the cushions. It’s blood, but it’s old. Someone’s tried to wash it out.   
  
I try to make as little noise as possible, even after I’ve realized that the house is empty. Only the kitchen and the bathroom on the first floor seem to be in use, and that’s only because they’re clean; the two bedrooms upstairs and the attic look even worse than the living room. But the kitchen’s cupboards are empty, save for a couple of plates and a single knife, and the bathroom’s just as bare.   
  
(What a dump.)  
  
There’s a calendar on the kitchen wall. Several dates are marked, including that of the full moon, which happens to be three days from now. Someone’s written a note next to the mark – five tiny letters, one tiny word.   
  
 _Salem_.  
  
I pull up a chair and stretch my legs until they squeak like leather. If he has to be in Salem for the full moon, he might not return till August 25th. Or he might drop by and... and… do what, exactly? What can anyone possibly do in an empty, dirty house? Normally, I’d be the last person to have a problem with waiting; but the thing is, I’ve found absolutely nothing that proves that a wizard might   
  
(‘ave used to)  
  
live here, although who else would? I’ve grown up in a place like this, and so has my grandfather, and his father before him…   
  
And then I notice the trapdoor.  
  
***  
  
Mr. Wizard McStingy should’ve simply bought a rug, instead of placing the kitchen table over the entrance to his workshop and calling it a day.  
  
Not that his workshop contains something worth hiding. It’s more of an alchemical laboratory than a wizard’s study, with far too many vials of chemicals and far too few books. Sure, the titles might unsettle your regular know-it-all, but so can an eight feet tall teenager.   
  
Now, I’d be the first to admit that I know next to nothing about chemistry and alchemy; sure, I can turn worthless materials into not-so-worthless gold, but that’s about it. Incenses, potions, powders, anything that can be prepared with a mortar and a kettle – that’s more up my alley. And yet, even I can notice that this here laboratory’s a work in progress.   
  
Perhaps our wizard’s just begun to settle into the house; perhaps he only visits rarely and does the real work somewhere else.    
  
Or perhaps this is just a storage place. I note the countless flasks, jars, and pots.  
  
(Yup, that seems ‘bout right.)   
  
I can’t think of anything better to do, so I begin to read the labels, and I try to remember which strange name belongs to which strange substance.   
  
“Aqua fortis. Aqua ragia. Aqua regia. Aqua tofani. Aqua vitae. Bluestone. Brimstone. Cadmia. Calamine. Calomel. Glauber’s Salt. Gum Arabic. Horn Silver. King’s yellow…”  
  
(Hah!)  
  
“... Lime. Lye. Potash. Powder of Algaroth. Purple of Cassius. Sal ammoniac. White arsenic. Zinc blende…"  
  
(Wait…)   
  
“… Jabez Bowen. John Brown. Joseph Brown. Nicholas Brown. Moses Brown. John Carter. Stephan Hopkins. James Manning. James Mathewson. Dutee Tillinghast...”   
  
(What the…)  
  
“… Eliza Curwen (nee Tillinghast)...”  
  
(… hell?!)  
  
“… Ezra Weedon. Benjamin West. Abraham Whipple…”  
  
I swear under my breath.   
  
***  
  
Of all the necromancers, in all of North America, did it  _have_  to be a family friend?   
  
***  
Joseph Curwen returns to his lair in Boston on Saturday evening, August 25th. Just as expected.   
  
(Well, not really. More like hoped.)  
  
By then, I’ve read his entire library, just in case there are interesting notes in the books’ margins.   
  
(Nope, nothin’.)   
  
I make sure I put everything back the way I found it. Some people are very specific about these things.  
  
***  
  
“And  _who_  are you?” my host demands.   
  
Cobwebs, blood, and salt. That’s what the ghouls described, and that’s what I see standing before me. His voice verges on wheezing, but he’s got the kind of nasty light in his eyes that can only come from inside. All in all, he reacts pretty well to the sight of a strange-looking stranger doing crossword puzzles on his couch.   
  
I fold the newspaper in two and toss it on the floor. When I stand up, my forehead barely misses the chandelier. I offer the man  
  
(ef ye can call ‘im that)  
  
a toothy smile.   
  
“I don’t s’ppose the name Whateley means anythin’ to ye.”  
  
Joseph Curwen doesn’t miss a beat. Hell, he doesn’t even blink.  
  
“It has been quite a while since it last sent me a postcard.”  
  
***  
  
There’s an old custom among humans   
  
(a rite)   
  
(a right)   
  
that goes like this – when a guest comes, the host must feed them and let them rest before asking any questions; and since that which is old respects that which is older, Curwen does what he thinks he should do.  
  
Turns out, we both enjoy raw meat. Who’d’ve thought?  
  
Curwen slurps the blood off his plate in a very in-your-face kind of way – something typical for ghouls and the creatures ghouls are afraid of. Next to him, my tail-mouth looks downright presentable. We eat in the kitchen, right above the door to his workshop; I’m sure that he knows that I know that, or my name’s Whipple.  
  
(An’ it ain’t.)  
  
When we’re done, Curwen leaves the spit-cleaned plates in the sink and goes to wash his face - he’s managed to get blood all over it, most likely on purpose. I half expect him to put his feet up on the table when he comes back.   
  
Instead, he drags me back to the living room, where he lights the rotting log in the fireplace with a single matchstick.   
  
(Homemade, I bet.)  
  
I take the couch, Curwen takes the armchair. I lean forward, he leans back. I prop my elbows on my knees, he crosses his legs and steeples his fingers. We wait for the flames to die out.  I don’t really need their light to see his face, and something tells me that neither does he.  
  
***  
  
Very old, for a human. That’s what the ghouls told me, and that’s what Joseph Curwen is.   
  
“You are telling me that John Whateley is your great-great…”   
  
“… great-great-great-grandfather’s brother.”   
  
Curwen’s probably done the calculations in his head by now, and they’re wrong. Nobody’s ever guessed my age right. I try not to smirk when he nods to himself.  
  
“Ah, yes. He was a very talented wizard. His library was a thing of wonder. Pray tell, does your family still…”  
  
“It’s all gone now, ‘cept fer what’s in my head. Which is most o’ it.”  
  
“Too bad. What happened?”  
  
“I died.”  
  
Curwen nods some more.   
  
“Ah, but of course. I can relate.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“It has happened to me before. Twice, even.”  
  
There we go. Feet on the table. Not that I blame him... although, to be honest, I would’ve gone about this whole breaking-and-entering thing a bit differently. Probably with an axe.  
  
“How did you get inside my house?”  
  
“Not easily, that’s fer certain.”  
  
“Who told you that I use this place?”  
  
“Not really sure of their name.”  
  
Curwen glares at me in a very off-handed way, like he’s got better things to do.  
  
“Does their name happen to start with ‘Yog’ and end with ‘Sothoth’?”  
  
I pretend to be pleasantly surprised and very excited.  
  
“Ye know my dad?”  
  
When in doubt, pull the daddy card. Curwen stares at me for a long while while he chooses his next words carefully.   
  
“I would like to say I know your father, but I am not presumptuous enough to make such a claim.”  
  
“Few are.”  
  
“I owe your father my life.”  
  
“Same ‘ere.”  
  
So far, so good. We give away as much as we should. It’s all very polite and very sincere. And this whole charade’s already getting on my nerves.  
  
“Ye gotta stop visitin’ the local graveyards.”  
  
Curwen blinks for the first time since our eyes met, and I can swear I hear his eyelids rustle.  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Not mine.”  
  
“Whose then?”  
  
“Take a wild guess.”  
  
“Yours?”  
  
“Cold…”  
  
“That of your brethren?”  
  
“Colder…”  
  
“That of your master?”  
  
“Colder than yer grave.”  
  
Call me a brat, but I’ll take insults and threats over politeness and sincerity any day of the week. And a game every now and then is just fine, but maybe not right now.   
  
“The ghouls ain’t happy with ye.” I tell my host. “In fact, they kinda hate yer guts.”  
  
Curwen blinks again. Turns out I was right, his eyelids really rustle– a bit like old parchment, in fact.   
  
(Wonder if they tear off as easily…)  
  
“Ghouls?”   
  
“Mhm. Y’see, all that grave-robbin’ bothers ‘em - a lot. Draws too much attention, from too many people. Not to mention all the murderin’ ye’ve been doin’ on their grounds – like that fellow ye buried alive… or the child, if that was ye. I mean, they’re not sure for the runt, but they’ve been watchin’ ye fer a long while, an’ lemme tell ye, so far yer on top o’ their blacklist.”  
  
Most people cough when they want to interrupt you. Curwen simply blinks – again. And again. Four times in less than five minutes. This must be a record or something. He uncrosses his legs and leans to me, as if to whisper – well, wheeze out – a secret.   
  
“You are telling me that  _ghouls_  lurk in the graveyards of Boston and have been in close proximity to me on at least two occasions?”   
  
I gape at Joseph Curwen – three-hundred-year-old, necromancer and alchemist, and one of the few outsiders my grandfather’s spoken of with something that can pass for respect.   
  
By the by, a good word from Noah Whateley means a whole damn lot. I still remember that one time when grandfather called Ephraim Waite, a good friend of his and a great wizard in his own right, ‘jus’ another of ‘em Innsmouth morons that whore ‘emselves tew the fish-frogs fer a handful o’ gold an’ a bucket o’ shrimp’.  
  
I remember to close my mouth and shrug like it’s no big deal.  
  
“Well, duh – Boston’s full of ‘em.” I tell him politely; I also want to tell him that it’s no wonder he’s died twice already, but that’d be rude.   
  
Curwen looks like he needs a drink – old whiskey or fresh blood, or maybe both, with some ice.  
  
“Then why is my skin still on my back and not in some ghoul’s lair to be used as a… a novelty carpet?”  
  
As if I’d tell him the actual reason. I shrug again and tell my first lie for the evening.  
  
“They’re patient.” Which isn’t too far from the truth – anyone who’s ever hung out with Pickman sooner or later learns to breathe deeply and count to ten. But the whole and actual truth  
  
(a funny thing with many sides)  
  
wouldn’t keep Curwen away from the graveyards, and that’s the whole point of my visit.    
  
And then  _that_  expression dawns on Curwen’s face, as if a hundred small wheels are starting to churn inside his skull, and I suddenly understand why he and John ‘My-Familiars-Are-The-Stuff-Of-Local-Legend’ Whateley used to get along so well.   
  
“Perhaps an assortment of amulets…" He rubs his chin thoughtfully, and the sound's like sandpaper on wood. "Or some kind of a banishing ritual… and, naturally, a couple of revolvers…”  
  
Now it’s my turn to glare at Curwen like I’ve got better things to do. Which I have.  
  
“Keep it up, an’ there won’t be enough skin left fer that novelty carpet.”   
  
And once again, Curwen doesn’t miss a beat.  
  
“A handkerchief, then.”   
  
He smiles at me when he says it, like it’s the punchline of a private joke, and before I know it I’m smiling back.  
  
(Maybe it is. Was. Or will be.)  
  
***  
  
There’s an old custom among humans   
  
(a rite)   
  
(a right)   
  
that goes like this – when a guest leaves, they must present the host with gifts; and since that which is young ought to respects that which is old, I do what my host expects me to do.   
  
Joseph Curwen doesn’t gasp when I tell him whom the two skulls belonged to, his hands don’t shake when he takes them out of the bag. He doesn’t thank me when I tell him he should have them, since he'll make a better use of their secrets.  
  
He says:  
  
“I will find out, Whateley.”  
  
I'm yet to tell him my first name, and he's yet to ask me about it.   
  
“Sorry, what?”   
  
“Whatever it is that you do not want me to find.”   
  
I roll my eyes at him.  
  
“Jus’ keep away from the graveyards, will ye?”  
  
He doesn’t smile this time.  
  
“I will try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilbur breaks into someone's house a la Khaa'r and runs into an old family friend, while I'm forced to copy+paste from Wikipedia. Also, we learn an awful detail regarding a certain 'ritual murder', the aftermath of which is mentioned in 'The Despicable Diaries'.
> 
> Also, the skulls of Eibon and Morghi finally leave the story! And in one piece too! Man, the plans I had for them... but then I decided to be nice. (You owe me one, Curwen.)
> 
> Forgot to mention something cool - there's a character named John Whateley in Fungi from Yuggoth, sonnet XXVI 'The Familiars'.  
> John Whateley lived about a mile from town,  
> Up where the hills begin to huddle thick;  
> We never thought his wits were very quick,  
> Seeing the way he let his farm run down.  
> He used to waste his time on some queer books  
> He'd found around the attic of his place,  
> Till funny lines got creased into his face,  
> And folks all said they didn't like his looks.
> 
> When he began those night-howls we declared  
> He'd better be locked up away from harm,  
> So three men from the Aylesbury town farm  
> Went for him - but came back alone and scared.  
> They'd found him talking to two crouching things  
> That at their step flew off on great black wings.


	13. The Place almost as Empty

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 12: The Place almost as Empty**   
  
 _Ye can’t know the world if ye don’t know yerself.  
  
Crawl ‘fore ye run, walk ‘fore ye fly. Read till ye understand. Watch till it hurts. Bleed till it stops. Sing till ye can touch the words with yer hands an’ not jus’ yer tongue.  
  
As long as yer goin’ where ye wanna go, where yer meant to go, yer on the right path._  
  
I leave Joseph Curwen’s house through the front door, but not before feeding him a cock-and-bull story about a magical formula that allows the wizard to pass through solid matter – he really wants to know how the hell I got into his house in the first place. Of course, he doesn’t believe a word of it, but he doesn’t ask me again. If I didn't know any better, I'd think we’re friends now.   
  
The full moon makes for a lousy night for graveyard visits, but I head for Copp’s Hill Burying Ground all the same. I climb over the fence and, just like the last time, all sounds disappear, as if the noises of Boston dare not reach through the iron bars; the shadows gape like opened graves, ready to swallow me whole. I go straight to the one familiar tomb in the entire graveyard and stand there for exactly two minutes like an out-of-order lamppost.   
  
(No ghouls, no nothin’.)  
  
My nerves are slightly twisted already, so I start whistling the shrillest tune I can think of. That earns me a rib to the head almost immediately. I wince and close my eyes for a second – plenty of time for the corpse-manglers to gather round me. Kind of frightening, to be honest.   
  
“You. Stop that.”  
  
“There’s more where this came from!”  
  
“What are you, the Pied Piper of... wherever you come from?”  
  
“I resent that – we are no rats.”  
  
“You have something against rats?"  
  
“So how did it go with the wizard?”  
  
I purse my lips. Was the bone-throwing really necessary? Could’ve hit me in the eye!  
  
“Nice to see ye too, jerks.”  
  
The ghouls don’t say that it’s nice to see me too, which is kind of rude, all things considered. The moonlight makes their eyes glisten like water.   
  
(So much fer small talk.)  
  
“Alright, first thing’s first – didja make the map?”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
“It was easier than we expected.”  
  
“Since you’re so tall…”  
  
“… and, well, weird…”  
  
“… we only bothered with the main doors – the really stable ones.”  
  
“So how did it go with the wizard?”  
  
One of the ghouls shows me a roll of something that’s most certainly not paper. I don’t reach out to take it, and the ghoul doesn’t reach out to hand it over.  
  
“Is that hyuman skin?”   
  
“Is that a problem?”   
  
“Nah...”   
  
“So how did it go with the wizard?”  
  
I lift my head to study the skies. The stars shiver slightly, as if they too wait to hear my report.   
  
“The wizard won’t be botherin’ ye anytime soon. I did somethin’ awful to him.” To be honest, breaking and entering and snooping around a person’s home are quite awful, so it’s not as if I’m lying. “Killin’ the guy was outta the question though.”  
  
The ghouls and I blink at each other for a while. Finally, the one holding the map asks:  
  
“Why is that?”  
  
I go for the oldest trick in the book.   
  
“Trust me, ye don’t wanna know.”   
  
They do want to know, but they decide to trust me instead.   
  
(Suckers.)     
  
***  
  
I finally get my map, and the first thing I notice is that I can draw a better one with wet chalk on cobblestones, using my left foot. I try not to make a face as I study the lines and symbols, but I fail spectacularly.   
  
“Ye couldn’t git Pickman to do it?”   
  
“Couldn’t you?”   
  
(Can it, wise guy.)  
  
I pull out my own maps from the satchel and start comparing the ghouls’ portals with my ley lines. A portal ought to be where the ley lines cross; luckily for the ghouls, everything seems to check out. I notice that most of the portals need at least three ley lines to be ‘stable’, though there are some born of five ley lines and there’s even one born of seven.  
  
(So there’s a formula to it.)  
  
(Nice to know.)  
  
“Explain why’s this X right ‘ere.”  
  
“Here lies Kadath in the Cold Waste...”  
  
“… not all of Kadath, of course…”  
  
“… not exactly the best place to be.”  
  
I snap at them – literally; my teeth clack when my mouth moves.  
  
“I know damn well where Kadath is; an’ if I feel like goin’ there, I’ll go even if I hafta crawl an’ swim an’ crawl some more.”  
  
I gather my things and prepare to leave. The ghouls exchange looks all around me, like tossing a secret over my head. Kind of irritating.  
  
“Anythin’ else?” I ask no one in particular. “Another wizard fer me to chew up?”  
  
(Well, more like ‘chew out’.)  
  
Their hissing ‘voice’ pounces on me like a scruffy kitten on a ball of yarn.   
  
“You know…”  
  
“… if you’re unable to find a door on your own…”  
  
“… maybe you have no business passing through any doors…”  
  
“… at all.”  
  
Are they worried? Nah. Are they suspicious? Most likely. But they still made the map, right? I ‘toss’ them my answer as I head for the fence.   
  
“I know what I’m doin’.”  
  
The ghouls don’t follow me this time, but their ‘voice’ still finds its way into my ear.  
  
“We hope so...”  
  
“... that’s why we agreed to make the map in the first place...”  
  
“… otherwise…”  
  
“… well…”  
  
"... there's no need for us to finish this sentence..."  
  
"... or is there?"  
  
I wave my goodbye without looking back.   
  
***  
  
I could’ve used the portal in Cobb’s Hill Burying Ground, but a quick look at the map tells me there’s another one not too far away from here – somewhere in the alleys north of Prince Street, or rather below them. I try to follow the ley line that passes through the graveyard, and I notice that my insides don’t churn and burn as badly as they did before.   
  
(Looks like I’m gittin’ used to this.)  
  
I find the house easily – a small, run-down shack with a small, run-down garden. It looks even worse than Curwen’s lair, but isn’t half as challenging to get in; I half expect to find a squatter or two inside, but there’s only mould and silence, as if nothing’s ever lived here, not even cockroaches.   
  
(Shame – I was kinda lookin’ forward to scarin’ the daylights outta some poor schmuck.)  
  
I don’t even have to search for what I came here – the trap door for the basement gapes at me from one of the corners. I can’t make out any footprints leading to or away from the hole, but when I stand above it I feel a draught coming from its reeking depths. There’s no ladder, but I’ve never really needed one.   
  
The basement itself turns out to be the beginning of a tunnel. The stench down here is really awful, but it’s nothing compared to my twin brother’s...   
  
***  
  
I start walking.  
  
***  
  
What is it that connects Dreams and Wakefulness?  
  
Existence.   
  
(… the Dreamlands an’ the Wakin’ World fffffather…)  
  
(… overlap father where are ye but not really…)  
  
(… not really no who cares…)  
  
(… walk the lines walk the paths walk the veins walk the strings walk through the blood…)  
  
***  
  
One step, two steps, three steps…  
  
***  
  
What is it that separates Dreams and Wakefulness?  
  
Nothing.  
  
Well, almost.  
  
(… the desert where beasts roam…)  
  
(… belong…)  
  
(… almos’ as Empty… )  
  
(… father so close… )  
  
And the shadows of those lines of those paths of those veins of those strings of those rivers of blood...................  
  
***  
  
… four steps, five steps, six steps…  
  
***  
  
The **r** e i **s a k** not i **n t** he li **ne** s.  
  
***  
  
The freedom to walk is the freedom to fall is the freedom to keep walking till your feet bleed.  
  
***  
  
C **ut**. S **cra** tc **h**. S **c** r **a** pe.   
  
***  
  
This edge. This corner. This angle. I remember. I will remember.  
  
(Please.)  
  
Stronger feet, surer steps, clearer mind. In the shadows. The shadows of the paths, of the veins, of Existence itself. I walk. I walk. I walk on my own.   
  
Here. The Place almost as Empty  
  
(father)  
  
as the Emptiness    
  
(Void)  
  
where nothing Exists.   
  
To be remembered but not spoken of.  
  
I remember I remember where I am and where I…   
  
***  
  
 **Cr** awl  **w** al **k**  bl **ee** d. C **ra** w **l**  wa **lk**  b **le** e **d**. Cra **wl wa** lk b **l** e **e** d.  
  
***  
  
… can see. I can see. I can see. Myself. Myself. Myself.   
  
This.   
  
Me.   
  
This. This is me.   
  
Where almost nothing Exists.   
  
***  
  
 **C** raw **l**   **wa** lk  **bl** ee **d**.  
  
***  
  
… seven steps, eight steps, nine steps.  
  
(Ah, ‘ere it is.)  
  
***  
  
I manage to trip over my own tail-mouth.   
  
(Well fuckin’ done, Wilbur.)  
  
I want to swear, but I also want to laugh. Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, I‘ve done it. I’ve actually done it. I’ve done as the voices told me. I’ve found the knot  
  
(traced the ley lines to it)  
  
and all by myself too – no Dreamers, no ghouls, no Byakhee, no cats, no incident. All me. All by myself. All alone.  
  
(No really, well done, Wilbur.)  
  
Right, now back to business. And back on my feet.   
  
(That felt… feels good. I feel good.)  
  
It’s nighttime, and I’m standing between a pair of stone pillars – a gateway of some sort. The air is cool and damp, filled with familiar smells – Earthly smells. The sky is clear, but moonless; I must’ve spent nearly two weeks in the Place almost as Empty.   
  
The road at my feet and the carved pillars are half-hidden by undergrowth – shrubs, grass, and vines. It tells me that it’s been a while since someone last cared about this place. I peer into the darkness beyond the gateway, not daring to cross it just yet, and I make out the shapes of what lies ahead of me – more shrubs, and more grass, and snake-like vines, and naked trees…  
  
… no, wait.   
  
 _Burnt_  trees.   
  
And the remains of a burnt house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Wilbur learns to walk on his own! In a way. Also, we get to hear the voice again. And we get to spend some time in the third realm - the one between the Waking World and the Dreamlands, just outside the Void. It's a fun place to be. 
> 
> To be honest, this chapter could've easily been merged with the next one, but I felt that it's would've resulted in a bigger mess than usual.


	14. The Colour

**Wilbur Whateley's Road Trip  
  
Chapter 13: The Colour**  
  
 _Destiny happens. Doesn’t matter what we do, what we think, ‘ow we feel. Destiny doesn’t give a damn an’ happens anyway._  
  
I walk up to the charred ruins very, very slowly and very, very quietly, as if I were approaching a snoozing shoggoth and not a great big pile of ash.   
  
(By the by, do shoggoths even sleep?)  
  
(An’ why do I care now?)  
  
(Gah.)  
  
It’s very easy to trip over a small shrub or a sprawling vine in the near-total darkness, but that’s not why I’m being so careful – after all, my eyes can see just fine during nighttime. Thing is, the closer I get to the burned house, the worse my insides react; the ley lines here are all messed up.   
  
(The veins o’ Existence…)   
  
Something really bad’s happened here.   
  
(… turned inna puddle o’ blood.)   
  
And might be happening still.  
  
I dare not wade through the house’s remains, at least not without a hint of some sort that it won’t cost me a leg. A small part of me – probably the one that never really grew up, the one that likes to pretend that death isn’t an actual thing I’ve been through – wants to call up my father and ask ‘now what?’. It gets shoved in the back of my mind and told to shut up… for now, at least. I’ve     
  
(...  **wa** lk a **l** o **ne**...)  
  
been   
  
(... th **er** e is  **a**  kn **ot i** n t **h** e li **nes**.  **C** ut.  **S** cr **at** ch.  **S** cra **pe**...)  
  
told  
  
(...  **there is a time and place for everything**...)  
  
more  
  
(… the long incantation…)  
  
  
than  
  
(...  **finally return to the temple in Dunwich**...)  
  
enough.  
  
(...  **c** ra **w** l  **w** a **lk b** l **ee** d...)  
  
I should be able to handle this.   
  
Whatever  _this_  turns out to be.  
  
There’s a small pouch in my satchel, with some powder of Ibn-Ghazi. I pour nearly half of it in my palm. Should be more than enough.   
  
(Let’s  _see_  now…)  
  
When I speak the words, I don’t really speak - it’s a half-whispered, half-whistled kind of a sound that turns my breath into a gust of wind and the powder into a rolling mist.   
  
(Lemme  _see_ …)  
  
The ghost of an old mansion rises before me – bigger than my house back in Dunwich with half a storey, and a lot fancier than most of houses I’ve seen. The powder-turned-mist sticks to the walls and roof like dust on glass, and for several breaths I get to see the place as it once was – before the fire and the creeping vines – and it’s a safe bet that its owners would’ve chased me out of their property with expensive rifles and purebred hounds but never with rocks and screams, the fancy bastards.   
  
Then something shifts, as if stirred awake, and the familiar color of Ibn-Ghazi changes to another color, to another  _thing_  - a color that is indescribable, a thing that is barely alive. I hold my breath, because I recognize it immediately.  
  
(The estranged children o’ the All-Mother...)   
  
(… live in the aether ‘tween the stars…)  
  
(… crave emptiness an’ hollowness…)  
  
(… only stop to die an’ rest ‘fore they give birth to ‘emselves…)  
  
(… their shape’s a sham, but their blood’s the blood o’ Shub-Niggurath an’ thus eternal.)  
  
Then the color-thing shifts again, and the ghost-house shifts with it, and the dusty ‘glass’ begins to grow dark, to grow mould, to grow solid – and the house is no longer a ghost and no longer a fancy mansion but quite real and a decaying wreck at that, the kind that’s just crying for a lit match and some kerosene.  
  
The churning and burning inside me stops; the relief comes so suddenly, it’s downright painful; and then I realize it’s not relief, because whatever’s happening inside me doesn’t stop but   
  
(everythin’)   
  
changes  
  
(sooner or later)  
  
and I bite my knuckles, because there’s nothing else I can do, at least not yet. Don’t know what I expected, but it sure wasn’t this. Because  _this_  could’ve gone wrong – hell, it can still go wrong – so easily and so quickly, it’s a little wonder they’ve been keeping me in the dark for so long.   
  
(Didn’t trust me, an’ father was right, an’ the Old Ones were right…)  
  
(… right like the stars when the world’s ‘bout to end.)  
  
So this is what this place must’ve looked like before. Before the fire began. After the starblood...   
  
(of fuckin’ course, father didn’t send me  _off_  course, ‘e knew, ‘e knew the All-Mother’d mention ‘em, ‘cause that’s what parents do, they talk ‘bout their children, even ef they’re ‘estranged’, an’ ‘e knew an’ ‘e wanted me to know too)  
  
… there’s starblood, somewhere inside, or below, or above the house. And the starblood – the  _eternal_  blood of a creature that only stops to die and rest before it gives birth to itself – the starblood somehow,  _somehow_  tied a small part of  _time_  and  _space_  in a  _knot_. The ley lines – the veins of the universe – the cycle of energies – the cycle of life and death was prevented from… from happening the way it ought to happen.   
  
This much at least is clear; what isn’t clear is if it was the powder of Ibn-Ghazi that cleared it up, in pretty much the same way it once helped me ‘see’ my twin, or if the starblood simply reacted to the powder, like a sneeze or a cough or…   
  
Alright, first thing’s first. One step, two steps, three steps, and so on… should know better by now.  
  
I walk over to the house and climb up the stone steps – they seem real enough, and so do the low porch and the half-rotten pillars that barely manage to support the wide balcony above. The rusty knocker looks as if it might fall off any moment now and drag the great carved door along, but I rarely knock anyway; the hinges screech and grate on my nerves when I try to push the door open, so I give up as soon as the gap is wide enough for me to squeeze through. I end up in a vast hall, filled with shadows and cobwebs and old furniture.  
  
Now that I’m in  
  
(a puddle o’ blood)  
  
my insides feel like needle ice, trying to push its way out through my flesh. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels bad. It feels… wrong.  
  
(Pathsstringsveins. No. Meetcrashmerge. No. Mess, bloody mess, bl-l-lood.)  
  
(A knot in the ley lines.)  
  
The grand staircase catches my eye almost immediately. Or rather, catches my tail-mouth – it opens and tastes the air with a dry hiss.   
  
There’s an oily stench in the air, as faint as the trail it comes from, and it reminds me of many things that are familiar and of a certain something that smells like it should be familiar but isn’t really, which is kind of frustrating. I have to look around to understand what caused me to react this way, and soon I find it – a strange, rope-like trail in the dust, faint but wide, as if left by a large  
  
(well-fed)  
  
snake. It goes up the stairs, crawling close to the balusters, and I decide to follow it because I don’t have any better ideas; the cold ‘needles’ inside me grow longer and sharper with each step, but I suppose it’s a matter of getting used to the feeling.  
  
(Gittin’ used to the puddle o’ blood. Gittin’ some o’ it inside yer shoes…)  
  
The trail leads me straight to the last floor – the attic, and if it weren’t for my good eyes I might’ve missed the few broken steps along the way. There’s no escaping the sprawling cobwebs in the small corridor; still, I keep my head ducked low lest wipe the low ceiling with my hair – not minding filth isn’t the same as liking it. The rotting carpet’s covered with nearly an inch of dust, except for a beaten path that leads to a door on the left. There’s a rusty latch on it, which is both encouraging and worrying. As I fiddle with the latch, I think about this strange house, and the burned ruins of its death, and the decaying wreck of its life, and I wonder if it’s as empty and deserted in life as it was in death.     
  
(What ef there’s someone else ‘ere?)  
  
The room on the other side of the door isn’t much different from the rest of the mansion, but it contains the last thing I’d expect to find here, at the end of the trail – an easel and a canvas, both covered with a velvet cloth.   
  
(Not a book, not an altar, not a statue.)  
  
(Rather, somethin’ in the middle.)  
  
I don’t even bother to stop and think; I just reach to draw the cover aside, and because I don’t think, I get a mouthful of dust.   
  
The canvas, or rather the painting, is in a very bad condition – mouldy and warped, and unfinished, but the darkness hides the worst defects, and if there’s anything I’ve learned from stealing Richard Pickman’s pencils, is that a good work of art is a good work of art no matter what.   
  
The first thing I notice is the color – the indescribable color that I only know as starblood. There’s all too little of it – just a smudge, enough to paint the contents of an interestingly-shaped goblet, and I can’t help but imagine holding that goblet   
  
(too much, too soon, to easy)  
  
and I have to shake my head clear, because the idea is far too distracting, and because there’s someone else holding that goblet already – a bloated corpse lying on some sort of a weird bench, completely naked save for a long veil of black hair that’s half-oily and half-crinkly and wholly strange. The figure takes the lower left-hand side of the canvas, and yet somehow manages to be the front and the center and the heart of the painting; the rest of it is an utter mess of symbols and suggestions. I tilt my head as I study the scene, not daring to blink, and I slowly begin to pick out the various elements – dry crumbs of Egypt and Africa, slimy pieces of Atlantis and Mu, and enough for me to recognize the legend of R’lyeh, if not the truth of R’lyeh. I note the unearthly logic of the angles and the uncertainty of the landscape; I rack whatever it is that I have for brains to remember the names of the races and creatures that lurk among the haze…  
  
... and this is where I get stuck, because there’s something about that corpse, with the precious goblet and the long hair – it looks as if it’s the most important part, if not the entire point, of the painting, and yet I can’t tell if the painting starts or ends with it. I stare at the prone figure with the precious goblet, I stare at it and I blink slowly and I think quickly and the painting changes without really changing, or rather my mind changes – a blink and I’m almost certain that the rest of the scene was born of this figure, as if they are just thoughts crawling out from underneath that long coiling hair, like smoke from fire; another blink and I’m almost convinced that it’s the other way around and that the decaying corpse with the undecayed hair is but a symbol, a mask, the total sum of the worlds and the shadows that lurk behind it.   
  
I shake my head again and reach for my knife.   
  
(Cut. Scratch. Scrape.)  
  
This ought to be easy.  
  
I move closer to the canvas, and I catch the painted corpse’s painted eyes staring right at me with a sort of nasty patience, as if it wants nothing more than to tear my face off for looking at it and not seeing it. The painted corpse’s painted eyes are dark and very large, and they are staring at me. The painted corpse is staring at me. Then the painted eyes bulge, and the painted lips move to bare two rows of yellow teeth, and the painted hair begins to flutter and twitch, like underwater weeds in a storm, and then strands of it lift themselves up from the canvas and reach towards me, towards my face.  
  
(No doubt to cut, an’ scratch, an’ scrape.)  
  
I should step back, step aside, step away from the groping strands of hair, but the closer they get to my eyes, the more I see and learn and understand. And what I see is that the hair isn’t hair at all, because proper hairs don’t have little mouths on their tips; and what I learn is that the ‘hair’ is actually a cluster made out of thousands of tentacles, if not a  _creature_  made out of thousands of tentacles; and what I understand is that the corpse on the painting is about as dead as the starblood on the canvas.   
  
The tentacle-hair touches my face   
  
(feels like snake bites, like oily kisses, like dusty cobwebs)   
  
and it gets inside my nostrils  
  
(smells like hyuman perfumes, like the bitter ocean, like rottin’ flesh)  
  
and it gets inside my mouth  
  
(tastes like gold, like blood, like ash)  
  
and it gets under my eyelids  
  
(like a dream that looks like a memory that sounds like a prophecy that feels like somethin’ long forgotten)  
  
and I scrape off the starblood with one jerk of my wrist and it sticks to the blade like wet piece of skin and all the while I keep thinking about the picture – the whole picture of the whole world – and I can’t care less about the painting, because it’s been cut and scratched and scraped and I’m done here…  
  
… and I’m standing in the middle of the charred ruins of a once-fancy house. The knot in the ley lines  
  
(the puddle o’ blood)  
  
is no more, and the cold ‘needles’ are replaced by the familiar churning and burning  
  
(the blood flows freely now)  
  
and what I have to do now is find out where exactly I am, because there’s a time and place for everything  
  
(fer ye, father)  
  
and that place is Dunwich  
  
(where my brother was born)   
  
and the time ought to be less than a week from now  
  
(when my brother was killed)  
  
and I’ve every reason to believe that if the eternal blood can keep a fancy house whole and keep that painting-shaped thing half-alive for Yog-Sothoth knows how long, then it can surely bring back the temple on Sentinel Hill and bring back my twin, if only till I’ve sung the long incantation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright; first of all, do you remember the chapter that take place in the woods near Chesuncook Lake? Specifically, the part when Shub-Niggurath started talking about her 'estranged' children whose 'blood' is 'eternal', and when she explained to Wilbur how to make some sort of ink or paint from them. (Best step-mom ever, really.) Wilbur though he wouldn't need to know that stuff, and he was partly right. He doesn't need to know how to make ink from the creatures, he needed to see their color and know what they can do. 
> 
> Sure, Wilbur will keep thinking that 'starblood' is a tacky name, but if he knew that the thing comes from 'fallen stars', I'm sure he'd... well. he'd still think it's tacky. 
> 
> ***
> 
> In this chapter, I merge one of Lovecraft's most popular and beloved stories with one of his least popular ones, because the end is nigh in more ways then one. 
> 
> If you've read 'The Colour Out of Space', then you probably remember how the story goes - a strange meteorite lands on Earth containing small globules of the titular color, which turns out to be a living (kind of) being, and then it disappears, sinking into the soil and the water and later latching onto other living beings like a parasite or a virus, causing them to mutate and/or die.   
> The story ends when the Colour reappears even sparklier than before and goes on its merry way through space. 
> 
> If you've read 'Medusa's Coil', then you probably remember this particular detail about Marceline Bedard's haunted painting - _...a monstrously shaped goblet in one hand, from which was spilling fluid whose colour I haven’t been able to place or classify to this day—I don’t know where Marsh even got the pigments..._   
>  Now I can't tell you where he got the pigments, but I'm pretty sure I know how - the priestess Tanit-Isis aka Marceline Bedard is, after all, _a magnificent being, a splendid focus of cosmic forces who has a right to be called divine if anything on earth has_ , and if an artist wants to paint her, he ought to have the best paints available... even though said artist also wanted to expose her as _the summit and high-priestess of all evil_.   
>  After Marceline's secret is exposed, she's quickly killed, but her death sets of a series of strange events - her chopped-off hair (implied to be a separate being that needs to be fed in some way) comes to life, kills the artist, and the house where she died becomes known as haunted and cursed till it burns down... only to reappear for some reason, years after the fire, and open its doors to the narrator of 'Medusa's Coil', before burning down again, thus destroying the painting and allowing Marceline's body to rise from its grave in the basement.   
> It's almost as if the entire place is stuck in some sort of a time-loop... or an alternate mini-dimension or sorts.
> 
> What we know about the Colour from outer space is that it essentially has the ability to reincarnate.   
> What we know about Marceline Bedard is that she is connected to R'lyeh in some unspeakable way, and that ___life and death are all one to those in the clutch of what came out of R’lyeh_. She herself has alluded to this life being her latest 'reincarnation'. Sure, perhaps by reincarnation she refers to something much different than what we understand, but here's my theory:   
>  \- the painting was meant to capture Marceline's true nature, and it did just that - capture her, or rather her spirit.   
> \- when the house burned the first time, the fire destroyed the painting - Marceline's prison - which allowed her to rise from her grave.   
> \- however, the Colour used for the painting's creation messed things up in some way, creating a distortion in time and space, eventually leading to the twist in the end of 'Medusa's Coil' came to be - the real, 'house burned down years ago but I was there last night I even have a single grey hair on my sleeve from the old man's hair' twist, not the 'Marceline was a colored woman' twist.
> 
> ***  
> To be honest, a part of me regrets that I only got to read 'Medusa's Coil' in the late spring, after 'The Little Apartment Building' was completed, because she would've fit right in the building. But on the other hand... well, spoilers. 
> 
> And speaking of TLAB, I'm planning to rewrite it; I'll change nothing from the plot, just edit the text, add filler details, make the whole thing flow smoother. Just thought some people should know.


	15. The Key and the Gate

**Wilbur Whateley’s Road Trip  
  
Chapter 14: The Key and the Gate**  
  
 _All that which lives shall die. The skies shall turn cold an’ empty, an’ the stars which look upon me now shall grow weak an’ die also. Ev’rythin’ shall be gone. Chaos is Order an’ Order is Madness, an’ so it shall be, an’ only we shall exist._  
  
The charred ruins, the creeping vines, the stone pillars at the gate are all behind me now – I leave this wretched place as quickly as I can, and I cradle the knife with the sticky flake of ‘starblood’   
  
(talk ‘bout a tacky name!)  
  
like I once cradled a fallen whippoorwhill, many years ago.   
  
(Bird died. Mother cried. Fed the bird to my brother. Some years later, fed Mother to my brother.)  
  
The ‘starblood’ sticks to the blade like not-so-freshly-peeled skin, and try as I might to scrape it off with a nail and put it someplace safer, it doesn’t budge; I really don’t have time or patience to spare, so I wrap the knife with some clean paper from the cheap notebook. That ought to do it.  
  
(Fer now.)  
  
Can’t help but wonder what the creature looked like before it ended up as paint, and if its body was as strange as its color. Kind of odd that none of my books mention anything like it; guess nobody lived to tell the tale. I suppose the painting I scraped it off is – or rather, was – also kind of interesting, but the canvas with the glaring corpse and the tentacle-hair is gone, so it doesn’t really matter.  
  
(Not anymore.)  
  
I follow the road, which turns out to be poor all the way and not just the forsaken part of it that leads to the burned mansion, and it leads me to the cornfields – vast and flat, and ready for harvest. I breathe in deeply, till the tentacles underneath my shirt start twitching, and I look up at the moonless, cloudless sky. Then I look down, at my maps.   
  
An hour later, after a lot of counting and muttering to myself and some token head-scratching, I calculate that that the date ought to be September 9th, since the full moon was on August 24th, and that I’m stranded somewhere in the Midwestern States, probably in Missouri – nearly 1200 miles away from Dunwich, and about 1100 miles away from the nearest usable portal.   
  
I want   
  
(need)  
  
to be on Sentinel Hill for the anniversary of my brother’s death, which is in less than a week.  
  
Now what do I do?  
  
***  
  
I whistle – a sharp sound that can kill lesser animals  
  
(or so Hastur claims)  
  
and sure enough, in less than fifteen minutes a Byakhee arrives; I know because I count every second, and only get to 865. The creature lands – plops, rather – in the middle of the road like a ray of starlight – swift and soundless.   
  
Byakhee fly a lot faster when they have no ‘cxxxxxrah’ on their backs to weight them down.  
  
I only recognize Boris when it starts flopping in circles around me, squeaking excitedly. I raise a hand to greet it like I’m supposed to, but Boris shoves its muzzle into my chest, knocking the wind out of me. It croons in broken Aklo – I manage to catch the words ‘found’ and ‘safe’ and ‘not eaten’.   
  
Guess losing its ‘cxxxxxrah’ was a bit stressful for it. Go figure.  
  
I smile – half because the summoning worked, and half because I summoned a friend.  
  
“Nice to see ye too, ye scamp.”  
  
(Hastur prob’ly regrets ever teachin’ me those tunes.)  
  
(An’ ef not now, then later fer sure.)  
  
Boris calms down, eventually, but not before nipping at my hair for old times’ sake.   
  
“I wanna go back to Celaeno” I lie. “Forgot to check somethin’ last time I was there.”  
  
The Byakhee tilts its head – a question.    
  
“Eh, some family stuff.”  
  
The Byakhee nods – an understanding.  
  
I climb onto the creature’s back and grip two of the tentacle-reins. I almost feel bad for what I’m about to do, but there’s no other way.   
  
Well, there is, actually, but this one’s the shortest.  
  
***  
  
Between the final leap away from Earth and the first ‘proper’ flap of Boris’ wings, I’m suddenly reminded of Shub-Niggurath and how lovingly she peeled my skin clean. And by reminded, I mean that the scars turn into open wounds, the skin cracking and baring the live flesh underneath. The pain is beyond words and beyond screams.   
  
Then the darkness and silence of outer space engulf my sight and hearing, and Boris’ wings begin to move – a sign that we’re using a ‘shortcut’  
  
(also known as a door ef yer a ghoul)  
  
(or a portal ef yer a wizard)   
  
and I fall off.  
  
This time on purpose.   
  
***  
  
I step off the shadow of path of the line of the vein of the string and into the desert into the shadows into the Place almost as Empty. Nothing can find me here. And I just know that something will try.   
  
I wait.  
  
(Real good at waitin’, lemme tell ye.)  
  
***  
  
Y **e** s.  **W** e c **an**  wa **i** t. W **e c** an d **o**  alm **os** t any **thi** n **g**.   
  
***  
  
I raise my hand in front of my face and I can actually see it - the true shape.   
  
(My shape.)   
  
(My truth.)  
  
It’s a nice thing to see. Shame I can get only a glimpse of it, and only here...  
  
(… but that’s gonna change real soon, right?)  
  
***  
  
 **Ye** s...   
  
L **is** te **n**...  
  
 **L** ist **e** n...  
  
Li **st** en…   
  
T **h** is i **s t** he w **ay** , th **i** s i **s th** e m **eth** od,  **th** is  **i** s th **e tri** ck,  **t** hi **s i** s t **h** e s **e** cr **e** t, thi **s**  i **s**  h **o** w t **o twis** t t **h** e  **Key**  an **d thi** s  **i** s ho **w t** o pu **sh** t **h** e  **Gate**  op **e** n...  
  
***  
  
 _This is to be said and remembered and kept away, for it should not be forgotten and it should not be spoken of._  
  
(‘Tis the story of ‘ow we got ‘ere.)  
  
 _The being Yog-Sothoth sprang forth from the Nameless Mist that embraces the Two Realms and the blessed Court, and the God saw that this was wise, for it is said that the being Yog-Sothoth is the Reflection of the Realms and the Destinies and the Archetypes, and the God kept the being Yog-Sothoth by Its side and saw Existence as it was, is and will be as it was Reflected._  
  
(‘Tis the story of a God an' Its Eyes-Mind-Mirror, which held all the worlds an’ all the time an’ all the symbols.)  
  
 _Alas, the being Yog-Sothoth decided that Existence is imperfect, and it wished to change it in accordance to its Vision, and this was Blasphemy, for the God is said to be without a flaw. Yog-Sothoth sees All and knows All, but it does not understand All, and in its solitude it brought to life numerous foul things that were its disciples and its descendants and its instruments and sent them to do its bidding, and this was Blasphemy as well, and the Reflection was fractured and thus tainted._  
  
(‘Tis the story of ‘ow we came to be. The students, the children, the tools. The Ancient Ones. The Old Ones.)  
  
 _And the God tore the being Yog-Sothoth away from the Existence and sent it to the Emptiness where nothing Exists – the Emptiness where there is nothing to Tamper with, where the being Yog-Sothoth shall be able to Rule and Create and Destroy and Change nothing else but itself. And after this was done, the God became Blind and Senseless, and the Soul of the God was also torn away and it became Madness and Freedom and Chaos.  
  
And the God made it so – the being Yog-Sothoth shall be incapable of leaving the Emptiness where nothing Exists, and the God made it so – Chaos shall reign supreme, and there shall be no Order nor Sanity nor Peace, and Chaos shall be Order and Order shall be Madness, until the End of Existence and the End of the God; and it is said that all this was Reflected by the being Yog-Sothoth, who is said to be the Supreme Reflection of the Existence, and it is said that Yog-Sothoth refused to accept this and denies it still._  
  
(‘Tis the story of ‘ow the universe became the universe it is, ‘tis the story of ‘ow Yog-Sothoth became the Beyond-One, ‘tis the story of ‘ow Azathoth became Blind an’ Mindless, ‘tis the story of ‘ow Nyarlathotep came to be.)  
  
(‘Tis the story of a Key an’ a Gate an’ a Void that’s not really empty ‘cause it contains the All-In-One an’ the One-In-All.)  
  
(‘Tis the story of ‘ow we learned to pick locks.)  
  
(It’s an awful long story.)  
  
***  
  
 **Cr** a **w** l wa **l** k b **lee** d.   
  
N **ow**.  
  
***   
  
(Dunnnnnnn…)  
  
One step. That’s all I need. I’ve walked all the paths all the lines all the veins all the strings that embrace the Earth, and I know exactly where I’m going.   
  
(…wichhhhhhhh.)  
  
***  
  
The path the vein the ley line ends.  
  
***  
  
I manage to trip over my own tail-mouth.  
  
Again.  
  
This time I don’t curse, and I don’t laugh.   
  
The grass on Sentinel Hill grows pale and thick, and the stems curl weirdly, like Mother’s hair used to curl after rain fell on her head.   
  
(I crawl.)  
  
***  
  
I somehow manage to get up and walk, but there’s no altar up there, and Sentinel Hill is no temple, and the voices can no longer reach me, not here, not anymore.  
  
(But not fer long.)  
  
Sentinel Hill’s peak devours the setting sun, crushing the feeble rays like a giant toothless maw. I want to break into a run, race the daylight and watch it die, but I also want to enjoy this feeling – the feeling of finally getting to go home and rest. It’s been so long, so frightening, so confusing - too many miles and too many people and too many wasted hours. And it’s finally over.  
  
(I walk.)  
  
***  
  
The hill-top is as bare as the night I found it nearly eighteen months ago. This is a good evening, and this is a good place, or so the few stars and their angles tell me.  
  
I reach into my satchel for the cheap notebook with the long incantation and for the starblood-stained knife.   
  
(Best souvenirs ever.)  
  
I take off my clothes slowly – my skin where Shub-Niggurath laid her tendrils   
  
(hands tentacles tongues tails tresses o’ hair)  
  
has healed, the wounds gone as fast as they opened, but the flesh is still tender.   
  
I sit cross-legged where the altar stone used to be, I wrap my tail-mouth around myself in a circle, I open the cheap notebook on the ground in front of me, and I start copying the long incantation.   
  
On my skin. With the starblood-stained knife.   
  
I’ve thought about this, and I’ve talked about this with the voices, and we all agreed that a simple circle and a simple chant aren’t going to be enough, not with the cut ley lines and the desecrated temple and the dead portal; just picking the lock isn’t going to work this time.   
  
However,  _becoming_  the lock and the temple… now that might work.   
  
Will work.  
  
(Ef there’s a will, there’s a way.)  
  
An hour later, my whole arms are covered  
  
(carved)  
  
with Aklo – the tiny symbols are filled with drying green blood. Somehow, the sight of them is worse than the agony of them.   
  
I toss the notebook aside, to where my clothes and satchel lie in a crumpled heap – won’t need any of those things, not after tonight.  
  
Slowly, I draw the knife across the palm of my left hand, following the deepest of the lines, and the small flake of starblood finally comes off the blade, thinned with my own plain-green blood, and then I feel the starblood wake up and come alive and twitch and burrow itself inside my wound, inside my flesh, inside whatever it is that I have for veins.   
  
I sing the long incantation of Yog-Sothoth the one I died for the first time around yes the first time and now  
  
(I)  
  
now my curled palm is overflowing with blood but the blood is trickling  _up_  in long, thin spirals and most of it is green but there are hints of the indescribable color  
  
(I’m)  
  
while all other colors drain from my flesh till it’s like living glass transparent and fragile and impossible, the symbols carved on my skin are dark like the veins pulsing beneath it pushing the blood out I sing and I watch the spirals of blood above my head twist and twist and twist – such strange patterns, and then the patterns are no longer strange but familiar oh brother  
  
(I’m gonna)  
  
my own brother my own blood the other half and half of it and the voices, the voices again, the voices at last – cajoling and cheering and crying and screaming – the voices are coming from inside me, and I tremble like the hills and I burn like the sacrificial fire and now I’m the temple and I’m the lock, I’m the Key and I’m the Gate  
  
(I’m gonna die)  
  
and I finish the incantation and unwrap my tail and break the circle and  
  
(I’m gonna die again)  
  
the Old Ones break through.   
  
***  
  
(The Key turns and the Gate opens and the Old Ones take blood and take form and take life.)  
  
(All life on this world, away from this world.)   
  
(The Old Ones – the Ancient Ones – the Archetypes – they know and they see and they devour, because all is one and one is all.)   
  
 **We**  w **e** re,  **We**  ar **e** , a **n** d  **We**  sh **all**  b **e**. Be **twe** en th **e spa** ces an **d ti** mes k **now** n a **s Exist** ence,  **We**  wal **k**  - ser **en** e an **d prim** al.  **Yog-Sothoth**  kn **ow** s  **t** he  **Gate**.  **Yog-Sothoth**  i **s th** e  **Gate**.  **Yog-Sothoth**  i **s**  t **h** e  **Key**  an **d Gua** rd **i** an o **f th** e  **Gate**. Pa **s** t, pr **es** ent, f **utur** e –  **All**  a **r** e  **One**  i **n Yog-Sothoth** , a **n** d  **Yog-Sothoth**  kn **o** ws  **All**  a **n** d s **e** es  **All**. I **t kn** ow **s whe** re **We**  br **oke throu** gh on **c** e, an **d wh** ere  **We**  sha **ll b** rea **k t** hro **ugh ag** ain – th **e cr** ack **s a** nd fl **aw** s o **f Exi** st **e** nce, t **he p** aths th **at l** ea **d t** o No **thing** ness. I **t k** no **ws w** here **We**  h **av** e tro **d Ear** th’s f **ie** lds, a **nd w** h **er** e  **We**  sti **ll t** rea **d the** m, a **n** d wh **y n** o on **e ca** n b **eh** old  **Us**  a **s We**   trea **d** , f **o** r w **ho ca** n beh **old tha** t  **whi** ch  **i** s  **Beyond**?   
  
(I know.)  
  
(I see.)  
  
(I devour myself.)   
  
(I am whole at last.)  
  
Ou **r se** mbl **a** nc **e can** not b **e**  kn **ow** n, no **t un** till **w** e ta **ke fles** h a **nd bl** oo **d a** nd li **fe fro** m t **hos** e tha **t we** re **bo** r **n t** o **di** e a **nd m** ak **e th** em **Ours**.  **We**  wal **k un** seen in **t** ho **se p** lac **es a** n **d wo** rlds wher **e t** he  **Words**  hav **e b** e **en s** poken a **n** d th **e**   **Rites**  ho **wle** d, whe **re**  th **e w** ind sing **s**  w **i** th  **Our**  vo **ic** es an **d th** e  **ea** rth  **whis** pers wi **t** h  **Our**   th **o** u **gh** ts...   
  
... Ka **dat** h i **n**  th **e**  c **old**  wa **st** e ha **s**  k **no** wn  **Us**. Th **e ic** e de **ser** t o **f**  t **he Sou** th an **d**  th **e**  sun **k** en is **les**  o **f**  O **c** e **an ho** ld sto **nes w** here **o** n **Our**  se **al**  i **s**  en **grave** n.  **We**  a **r** e  **Beyond**  th **at wh** ich E **x** ists.  
  
(The gods cease to be gods. The forests and the cities disappear, ruined and forgotten. The living beings cease to live, and then they cease to be. The lands and the oceans are filled with silence, and the winds are filled with voices, and the skies are filled with light.)  
  
(I see a pile of open books and I see them turn into a pile of ash.)  
  
(I see a world that is not the Universe, and a god that is not the God, and a court that is not the Court, and a soul that is not the Soul, and I see the symbols and the meanings and the reasons, and I see the Void blossom and I see the Desert grow.)  
  
 **Yog-Sothoth**  i **s t** he  **Key**  t **o th** e  **Gate** , wh **er** e th **e u** ni **verses**  m **ee** t. M **a** n rul **es n** ow w **her** e  **We**  r **ul** ed o **n** ce;  **We**  sh **all**  so **on**  rul **e wher** e  **m** an  **ru** l **e** s n **ow**.  **We**  wa **it p** atie **nt a** nd p **o** t **en** t, fo **r he** re sh **all We**  r **e** ig **n ag** a **i** n.  
  
(I see the pieces of a broken mirror coming together again, I see a window shatter open, I see a wound healing and leaving a scar, I see a memory that is forgotten and a memory that is altered and a memory that is a prophecy and the prophecy is a promise and the promise is fulfilled.)  
  
(Order might be Madness, but here in this flawed universe Madness reigns.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boris the Byakhee: Surprise, bitch. Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.  
> DP: *sigh* Here's your paycheck. Now skedaddle.
> 
> ***
> 
> If you're currently reading the author's note in search of an explanation, just read An Odd Thing. Or wait for me to post the Epilogue.
> 
> ***
> 
> Alternative titles of this chapter - Ain't Nobody Fresher Than My Clique; Wilbur Ruins Everything For Everyone; Apocalypse Via What-The-Eff-Is-That?!


	16. Souvenirs

**Wilbur Whateley’s Road Trip**  
  
 **Chapter 15: Souvenirs**  
  
  
 _SOUVENIR (noun) :_  
  
 _1\. small and relatively inexpensive article given or kept as a reminder of a place visited, an occasion, etc._  
  
 _2\. a remembrance; memory._  
  
  
Survival is a cruel process – the fairer twin of torture, in a way, for survival too breaks people, all while keeping them alive and whole.  
  
They aren’t known to be a pious race, not since after the beginning of their long exile, when their prayers degenerated into hysterical begging; and if they aren’t bitter about losing their world to the scourge of Dholes, it’s only because they've learned to travel light, and to carry as little baggage as possible – only useful tools and priceless knowledge, and cold memories.  
  
(nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn)  
  
Many births and deaths later, when the memories have faded to legends, they once again have a world to call their own, strange and bitten as it may appear, and a leader to guide them to it, strange and bitter as he may be. They name this world New Yaddith, after the old one, and they begin to study its secrets, discover its treasures, test its waters. They build an entire city from scratch and hopes, and the city promises to grow and prosper.  
  
They even begin to pray again, because faith is a tool, and tools ought to be used by those who are hopeful, rather than by those who are fearful.  
  
(nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn)  
  
The Calling Hour is an hour like any other on New Yaddith, except not really, because even though they all go about their business as usual, the knowledge that something - anything - might happen keeps them on their clawed toes, and also inside their homes. They aren't banned from going near the Neik'r, but they aren't exactly wanted there either, or more precisely, they don't want to be wanted. Only their leader, also known as the Arch-Ancient, also known as the Wizard, dares to enter the Neik'r, and only he dares to touch the opalescent stones that form the Neik'r, and only he dares to handle that one spear which stands propped against one of said stones. The Calling Hour itself begins once he does all those things and more, after he draws a certain shape in the oily patch of soil in the center of the Neik'r and after he howls a certain invocation, all of which is supposed to be pleasing to the God Who Is Beyond, whoever and wherever that may be.   
  
They are content with this arrangement, partly because they aren’t known to be a pious race, and partly because they don’t really trust this particular god as far as than they can throw him – after all, what kind of a divine being simply hands out planets in exchange for something as trivial as worship, and more importantly, what kind of a divine being hands out planets that look as if something has taken a bite or five out of their landmass?  
  
(nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN)  
  
It happens during the Calling Hour, which surprises nobody.   
  
The leader, also known as the Arch-Ancient, also known as the Wizard, also known as Zkauba, completes the invocation despite the strain it puts on his vocal organs and waits for the air inside the Neik'r to begin to writhe and be filled with colors and smells and sounds from out of this universe, but nothing of the sort happens – the air remains still and empty, and the standing stones that form the circle of Neik’r neither tremble nor change their opalescent colors.  
  
At first, nobody can recognize the loud, strange noise for what it is - the many-voiced hum of a hundred weddings about to take place beneath the lake’s surface.  
  
At first, they panic.   
  
It's been many years since Zkauba last heard the 'song', and to someone as scarred as him there is little difference between a year and an aeon.   
  
Then his eyes land on the oily stain in the center of the Neik'r, and he remembers what died there.   
  
(NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn)  
  
The creatures are about the size of a healthy hatchling, with elongated, thick bodies and impressive clusters of tentacles where the head should be; everything else about them, however, looks subtly wrong, and decidedly un-Yaddithian - their tentacles twitch in a very unpleasant manner as they rub them together in order to ‘sing’, while their flippers and tails give off the impression of having been mutilated and then healed back the wrong way. There are at least a couple of hundred of them, flopping about in the shallow waters of lake Oub, because of which they appear to be boiling when seen from the nearby city.  
  
The small group of community leaders observes the creatures from what they consider to be a safe and respectful distance. The longer they look, the more their enthusiasm recedes, until it’s only the ‘song’ that prevents them from declaring this to be a bad omen.  
  
After a while, one of the leaders – a scribe – tugs at Zkauba’s mantle.  
  
“What are these monstrosities?” he hisses quietly, as if afraid that the creatures might hear him and feel slighted.  
  
“Are you blind, or have you forgotten?” Zkauba hisses back.  
  
The scribe does not like his tone, so he adopts it; sharp to the point of cutting himself at times, he never misses the opportunity to cut up others.  
  
“I can see what they are  _supposed_  to be, but do not expect me – or anyone else, for that matter – to believe that these are the Tears of Yaddith…”  
  
(nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn)  
  
Zkauba isn’t listening - not to the scribe, at least, but to the memory of somebody else’s voice – deep and reverberating, it had spoken to him of foul things which he wants to forget but cannot.  
  
“… especially since we all remember the Last one, and even its rotting corpse was much better-looking than these… these…“   
  
“New Yaddith is not going to be built on old tears and old fears.” Zkauba interrupts. “This is what he said, this is what he promised.”  
  
(NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn)  
  
The rest of the group is watching them argue; it’s better than watching the mutilated monstrosities mate.  
  
“Who?!”  
  
(NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN…)  
  
“The Messenger of the God Who Is Beyond.”   
  
(...)  
  
Zkauba notices the hitch in the creatures’ ‘song’ when he mentions the god – less than a second of silence, but it tells him all he needs to know.  
  
(…nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN)  
  
***  
  
At first, Randolph Carter thinks he has woken up on the wrong side of the universe.  
  
The world he remembers was a fleshy, muddy, moist pearl of a planet, a resilient bubble crafted from dull colors and throbbing sounds and strange smells. The world he remembers was filled with blood-splattered oblivion and sparkling knowledge and moth-like hopes and silent gods and most of all with life, fluttering in the air and writhing in the soil and floating in the water, life and death and dreams. The world he remembers had lush forests and sunlit fields, empty roads and crowded cities, and a place he once called his home.  
  
The world he remembers – the world he hails from – is now Empty.  
  
Randolph Carter clutches at the Silver Key, like a drowning man might clutch at straws, or a rope, or perhaps even a snake. He looks around, and his neck makes this odd cracking sound, and his eyes threaten to stop seeing and start bleeding – not at all surprising, that, for he is more used to Dreaming than to being Awake; not at all worrying, though, for as long as he has the Key, all doors and all realms are his to unlock and walk through.  
  
The color is the first novelty he notices, and also the novelty which bothers him the most – not the endless plains and round hills of cold ash and bare rock; not the unpleasant stench which stains the otherwise clear air; not even the dead silence that reigns between the Empty land and the Empty sky; but this strange, awful, gaudy color he has never seen before (and he's seen a great many horrible things). And it’s not even an actual color, but a hint of a color, a pale shade, a subtle nuance that glistens dully underneath the ever-shifting clouds and the fractured rays of sunlight, as lifeless as the world it has soaked into.  
  
Then he notices something else, far away from where he is but not too far, and it bothers him nearly as much as the color, but for a very different reason, because Randolph Carter has actually seen it before and he knows what it is – a perfectly round hill-temple-court, crowned with a perfectly familiar circle of jagged stones-pillars-thrones... but where are the veiled courtiers? Where are the beings known to him as the Ancient Ones and to others as the Old Ones, who serve a master known to him as the Most Ancient One and to others as Yog-Sothoth?  
  
As if aware that Their absence has been noticed, Their voices fill the air slowly, like blood welling up in a wound.  
  
Ra **n** do **l** p **h**  C **art** e **r**.   
  
He blinks, and then he realizes he can see Them, he has been seeing Them all the while, like one might see flawless glass and clean water and naked sunlight, and he blinks again and he sees the tattered veils and the tentacled flesh and the glaring eyes, and he blinks  _again_  and he sees the blood that is not there because They've drunk it all.   
  
They gather around and above him. They are enormous, about the size of living, twitching, all-devouring symbols, and They fill this Emptied world like revealed truths; They are distant and yet far too close for comfort, and One of Them draws even closer to him, half-crawling and half-walking and half-flying, and if he thinks that That particular One looks familiar, he decides not to comment on it, not yet.  
  
“Hello!” he says, because it seems like a good idea. His fingers – those that hold the Silver Key – have gone numb, but he dares not lessen his grip.  
  
 **T** h **er** e i **s not** hing l **ef** t  **f** or yo **u he** re. G **o b** ac **k t** o y **our**  th **ro** n **e**.  
  
“Not before you explain to me what happened here.”  
  
 **I** t i **s ob** vio **u** s.  
  
“Not to me, it isn’t.”  
  
He observes That which speaks to him and how it changes before his eyes, and he thinks he can see remnants of a face and some hair and perhaps even an arm, resurfacing like fossils from a long-gone age.  
  
M **a** n rul **ed o** nce w **her** e  **We**  r **ul** e n **o** w, wh **er** e  **We**   **ru** l **ed**  be **for** e, w **h** e **r** e  **We**  w **ill**  rul **e al** ways.  
  
“But first you had to get rid of… of Man. And of Animal, and of Plant, and of all Life. You had to Empty this world, so that there would be a Place for you… “  
  
 **We**  kne **w yo** u wo **ul** d und **e** rst **an** d.  
  
Randolph Carter remembers their first meeting, when They had saluted him in the same manner as they had saluted The Most Ancient One, and he remembers that They had referred him as ‘one of us’. He remembers that he had remembered the legends whispering of their malice and of their damnation, and that he had then considered these legends to be nothing but the babblings of conceited fools.  
  
Horror begins to dribble down his mind, fat drops and slimy trails, nameless fears and vague regrets, and then Their voices reach him again.  
  
 **W** it **ness**  th **i** s, R **and** olph C **art** er, th **is**  P **l** a **c** e al **most**  a **s**  Em **p** ty  **a** s th **at wh** ic **h l** ies o **n th** e ri **m o** f th **e**  V **oi** d, be **neath** t **h** e  **Gate** , a **t th** e ti **ps o** f  **Our**  t **en** ta **c** le **s**. Wi **t** ne **ss**  t **h** i **s** , an **d k** now th **at ev** eryt **hi** ng t **hat h** ap **pen** s oug **ht t** o h **ap** pe **n** – i **n t** he  **past** , i **n t** he  **present** , i **n t** he  **future**.  
  
Randolph Carter looks around pointedly, and indeed all he sees is Empty lands and Empty skies, and the foul shade of that strange color, and the familiar shape of That which speaks to him.  
  
T **h** e  **Gate**  ha **s be** en op **en** e **d**  be **fore**  an **d th** e  **Gate**  wi **l** l b **e**  op **en** e **d**  a **gain**. Th **e Void**  ha **s blos** some **d be** for **e an** d  **t** he  **Void**  w **ill**  bl **osso** m on **ce mor** e. T **he Desert**  wil **l ne** ve **r st** op gr **ow** i **n** g. W **i** tness t **his** , be **f** o **r** e yo **u re** turn t **o yo** ur Dr **e** a **m** s.  
  
“What about the others… the other gods, I mean?”  
  
The question leaves his mouth before he can think it through, and the response is immediate.  
  
 **WH** Y WO **U** LD  **Y** O **U**  AS **K**  AF **TE** R T **HE** M???  
  
The world shrinks to a tiny sphere, beyond which lies Nothing, and also certain and utter destruction; Randolph Carter finds himself drowning in Their presence – in Their stench, in Their screams, in Their ugliness. They surround him like a pack of storms, all bulging eyes and swirling tentacles and torn veils.  
  
 **W** HY?  
  
W **H** Y??  
  
WH **Y**???  
  
That which was speaking so kindly to him which is now roaring at him is now folding Its own tentacles into something akin to human arms – there are elbows and forearms and wrists and fingers, but there are large gaping holes where the palms are supposed to be, like wounds; It reaches out to Randolph Carter, as if to strangle him or embrace him or tear him to pieces.   
  
W **HY**  D’Y **E A** SK A **F** TE **R**  ‘E **M**? WH **Y D** ’Y **E S** EE **K ‘E** M?? D’ **Y** E WI **S** H T’W **OR** SH **I** P ‘E **M**???  
  
Randolph Carter just stares at the being, as if he has not seen It in a long while.  
  
“Who are you?” he asks, even though he is almost certain he knows the answer.  
  
The tentacle-hands stop inches away from his throat, and he notices that they are about the size of the mountains in the distance, or more precisely, that they are a bit smaller than the hands of a large man and a bit larger than a small hill, and then he finally remembers to be afraid, but it is too late – Their furious ravings are no more, replaced by a tranquil silence that is somehow even more foreboding. He watches the fingers flex once, twice, before the being remembers to draw Its arms back to Itself, to the remnants of what was once a peculiar face.   
  
 **W** ho  **a** m  **I**. W **h** o  **a** m  **wh** o a **m w** h **o a** m  **I**  I  **I**  I  **I**  I **I**.  
  
The fingers and the hands and the arms come undone. The tentacles twitch and writhe and sprawl all over the Place, but never in Randolph Carter’s general direction. He finds that both flattering and reassuring.  
  
 **We**  ar **e t** he  **An** cie **nt**  O **ne** s.  
  
“Indeed you are.” He begins to fumble the Silver Key.  
  
We a **r** e t **h** e O **l** d O **n** e **s**.  
  
“That too.” He continues to fumble with the Silver Key.  
  
 **We**  ar **e t** he d **is** cip **les**  a **n** d th **e de** scen **dent** s an **d th** e ins **trum** ent **s o** f t **h** e  **One-in-All**  an **d th** e  **All-in-One**.  
  
“Obviously.” He is no longer fumbling with the Silver Key.  
  
 **We**  a **r** e  **Yog-Sothoth**  mani **fest** ed.  
  
“Yes.” He turns the Silver Key, and then he is no longer there.  
  
They ignore his absence.  
  
 **We**  a **r** e. A **t**  la **s** t,  **We**  ar **e**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: FFFFEEEEEEEELLLLLSSSSSSS!
> 
> That One Rational Brain Cell: Oh, for fuck's sake... Now what??
> 
> Me: ZKAUBA AND YADDITH ARE GIVING ME FFFFFEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLSSSSSSS!
> 
> That One Rational Brain Cell: So does vodka. 
> 
> Me: No, no, you don't understand! I must write a fic about Zkauba and his feelings of guilt after realizing that thanks to Carter he hadn't been there to help prevent Yaddith's doom (even though the doom was almost certain but shush!), and also about the (hypothetical) damage done to his psyche because of the kidnapping, and also I want to write about him meeting descendants of the survivors of Yaddith's doom and his inability to connect with them (because drama!), and also maybe a sequel to WWRT which focuses on Zkauba and New Yaddith and weird interstellar politics and made-up alien cultures and traditions and also about building a functional society from not-exactly-scratch, and what it would be like to research an entire new and previously unknown planet while trying to live on it, and also making up new species of animals and plants and fungi and and and...
> 
> That One Rational Brain Cell: Whoa, whoa, whoa. You do realize that this is some D'ni level research here, right?
> 
> Me: BUT MAH FFEEEEEEEEEELLLLLSSSSSS!
> 
> ***
> 
> Okay, so here's the thing - this was originally going to be the epilogue, but after editing it like four times and changing the POV character three times I decided that it simply can't be THE epilogue, so it became a chapter. :P


	17. Epilogue: Chaos

**Wilbur Whateley’s Road Trip  
  
Epilogue: Chaos**  
  
  
  
So it happened.  
  
(Here’s a spark and there’s a splash, inside the dark, under the ash…)  
  
After so many attempts, it finally,  _finally_  happened.   
  
(… and now there’s nothing, nowhere, never – no gods, no hopes, no dreams forever.)  
  
Yog-Sothoth finally got its way  
  
(in)  
  
(in a way)  
  
(destiny manifests at last oh conqueror of dust)  
  
or rather, They did – those lackeys-children-tools-manifestations of it, those half-witted, grabby tentacles, the so-called Ancient Ones, the so-called Old Ones…  
  
***  
  
… the Whateley twins.   
  
Mr. Tall Dark and Mouthy, and his bigger, better half of a brother. The wizard-priest-servant and the monster-god-lord. The one who acts and talks and walks and is a symbol of the Rite from that spell-filled book, and the one who thinks and dreams and waits and is a symbol of the Temple on that stone-crowned hill… Essentially, the Key and the Gate, in miniature   
  
(in caricature)  
  
but actually an Old One, torn in two and born in blood possessed and blood devoured, the blood of the life of the world they sought to conquer.   
  
Yog-Sothoth meant to use   
  
(it)  
  
them to turn the Key and open the Gate for the rest of their kind, and also to mock us.  
  
To  _mock_  us. To mock  _us_  - me  
  
(the Crawling Chaos, the Soul, the Messenger)   
  
and the God   
  
(the Nuclear Chaos, the Daemon Sultan, the Blind Idiot)  
  
and with  _puppets_ , of all things.  
  
(What a prick.)  
  
I would have laughed, and laughed, and laughed  
  
(and pointed, and whistled, and thrown rocks)  
  
but the runts were just that – runts, small and ugly and smelly, and likely to die soon anyway.   
  
***  
  
I am no stranger to anything – All is familiar to me, and I consider the acquirement of knowledge to be one of my many, many reasons to Exist. To shed some light, to cast some shadows, to craft a mask or two or a thousand and let them play their roles… but those are just as few of my favorite pastimes.  
  
I am known as a Messenger -  _the_  Messenger, in fact. I learn, I experience, I collect, I strive to be aware, and one of the many, many things I am aware of is a certain  _apocryphal_  story that has been floating around   
  
(in space, like a good little planet)  
  
for a while.   
  
***  
  
(Imagine a myth so obscure, it sounds like it was made up on the spot.)  
  
(Now listen.)  
  
(Ahem.)  
  
 _All began when the God began._  
  
(At least in this particular universe, that is. I cannot be held responsible for what happens in other universes… Well, theoretically I can, but only in  _certain_  universes, but it’s not as if anybody can prove anything.)  
  
 _The God wished to sing, so It sang and It spoke and It screamed, and the universe listened and obeyed.  
  
The God wished to dance, so It danced, and the universe joined It.   
  
The God wished to live, so It created a World where It could be Awake_  
  
(the world where our dear friend Kuranes was born)  
  
 _and a World where It could Dream_  
  
(the world where our dear friend Kuranes was crowned)   
  
 _and a Court where It could be happy._  
  
(The Court of Azathoth. The center and the heart, the source of every creation and every destruction. Very noisy, very fancy and very exclusive.)  
  
 _The God wished to rest, so It sighed and Its breath was a Mist. The God gave it no Name but gave it All instead, and this Nameless Mist embraced the Worlds and the Court and even the Places almost as Empty, which separate the Existence from the Void, and from this embrace the most strange being was born, in whose eyes the God saw All there was, is and will be.  
  
The God decided this was just _ swell _, this wonderful One-in-All and All-in-One, as the God called the strange being, and All was well for a while, and everyone was happy and content and safe.  
  
Until the One-in-All and All-in-One got _ ideas _.  
  
Until its mirror-like eyes got cracked, and the cracks grew, and the cracks turned into tentacles, and these tentacles are now calling themselves Ancient and Old and whatnot, and the strange being, the wonderful One-in-All and All-in-One, became the Yog-Sothoth we all know but don’t invite to our parties.  
  
Essentially, Yog-Sothoth is nothing but a Mirror of the Existence. A mirror’s purpose is to reflect the truth, not reflect on how it can change it. But Yog-Sothoth did exactly that, and started calling itself a God, and wrapped itself in the universe’s folds, and took Life_  
  
(also known to some as Shub-Niggurath to some)  
  
 _for a wife, and sired a bunch of godly brats, and put the fear of itself in anything it thought could use some horror to go along with the paranoia._  
  
(Two words – ‘control’ and ‘freak’.)  
  
 _And the God decided this wasn’t swell at all, and banished Yog-Sothoth into the Void, and declared that it will never ever_ ever _come back, not while the God still Existed.  
  
And because Yog-Sothoth desired this strange thing called Order, the God declared that there shall be no Order, or rather than Chaos shall be Order and Order shall be Madness, and as an example to All the God lost Its sight and Its sanity, and it tore Its soul away, and that soul became I, and the rest is history…_  
  
***  
  
… its story, to be precise. The story of the being known as the Whateley twins.  
  
(I remember the meaning of the word ‘mercy’.)  
  
(What is mercy – to kill them all quickly or to let them die off slowly?)  
  
Their story begins –  _really_  begins – when the small, sad, mad wizard managed to gather his worm-eaten books and his flea-bitten wits long enough to discover the proper place  
  
(a hill, a temple, a Gate)  
  
and the proper time  
  
(when the skies are kind, when the stars are right, when the night is good)  
  
and the not-quite-proper-but-still-acceptable method  
  
(a butchered song, a mangled spell, a broken Key)  
  
and to decide that:   
  
“Ef I ken dew it, I will dew it.” The wizard announced to the round hill and to the standing stones, to the sacrificial blood and to the trembling fire, and to the always lurking, almost smirking Old Ones…   
  
***  
  
There have been others, of course – other wizards, other attempts, other failures.   
  
A lesser being would’ve stopped trying, or not attempted at all; but a lesser being is a god at best, and Yog-Sothoth is so much more - One-in-All and All-in-One, and this makes me wonder…   
  
(about this All-knowing and All-seeing being, what it knows and what it sees and what it is)  
  
… all those failed attempts, were they in fact attempts, and did they really fail?   
  
***  
  
… the always lurking, almost smirking Old Ones whispered to the small, sad, mad wizard, and he listened carefully, and he nodded; and a couple of years later he killed his wife, and he brought his only child – a lonely, ugly, pale girl – to the hill, and the Old Ones whispered to her as well. The girl was terrified, but polite, so she listened carefully, and she nodded; and a couple of decades later she went to the hill alone and naked, and she sang, and she had the words-symbols of the song-spell written upon her white skin, and she ‘picked the lock’ of the Gate with the broken Key, and she  _became_  the Gate and the Key and the lock as well, and she begot…  
  
***   
  
… something.  
  
Some thing _s_ , rather. A couple of them. A pair. A pair of twins.  
  
Born together, raised together, fed together, taught together, they allowed their small, sad, mad grandfather to die, and some time later they helped their lonely, ugly, pale mother to do the same. Together and all by themselves, the Whateley twins were whole and alive and well.  
  
And naturally, when they were separated at last, when the wizard-priest-servant  
  
(the Key)  
  
went to seek the proper spell in the proper book  
  
(the proper Key)  
  
and left the monster-god-lord  
  
(the Gate)

alone with the sacred hill and the voices  
  
(the proper Gate)   
  
they both died.  
  
***  
  
Truth be told, it was the smaller twin’s fault – he failed to obtain the book, he failed to obtain the spell, he failed to protect himself, he failed to protect his secrets, he failed to protect his brother. His words, his thoughts, his actions… his entire being was nothing but a cascade of mouthy tentacles and gross mistakes.  
  
***  
  
And speaking of gross mistakes…  
  
***  
  
Everything that can possibly exist does, in fact, exist – just not in a single universe; I shudder to imagine what a glorious mess  _that_  would be.  
  
That being said, the current arrangement does not inconvenience me in the slightest; in fact, I prefer it - I consider my ‘visits’ to other universes to be an escape, of sorts, from the ‘protocol’ of my own; not to mention that there are so many to choose from, and each of them is practically unique, which almost guarantees that I will always return to my own universe with at least several interesting ideas and even a souvenir or two.  
  
***  
  
… I should have left the girl where I found her.  
  
(I only wanted a new mask; it went well the last time.)  
  
***  
  
Cracks lead to ruin. Wounds leave scars. Like attracts like.   
  
I admit, it was  _I_  who ultimately allowed for the Precedent to happen – an Outsider, dragged into the very center of the universe in order to be assimilated, only for her to refuse and escape; the Precedent allowed for the Violation – a new crack, a new wound, a new path, a single moment of weakness and uncertainty when she startled the God. 

More than enough for Yog-Sothoth and its grabby tentacles.   
  
More than enough for the Resurrection of that runt, the so-called Wilbur Whateley. More than enough for the Liberation of the Dreamer Randolph Carter and the Enslavement of the wizard Zkauba. More than enough for the first of several batches of unwitting ‘pawns’ – Waite, West, Curwen... all ‘natives’ to the universe from which Yog-Sothoth was banished, all so very easy to be put in their places.  
  
It was all rather fascinating to watch, so I did not intervene.  
  
(Order is Madness indeed.)  
  
***  
  
The runt’s Chores and their completion were especially interesting to observe, but not nearly as entertaining as the runt itself.  
  
(The precious kid.)  
  
Yog-Sothoth, being All-knowing and All-seeing, kept him in the dark until the very end – no doubt so that the runt would be on his deformed toes and pay more attention to whatever details he managed to discern, rather stare contently at the bigger picture like the last time.  
  
(How easy it is to trip over a vicious dog when your mind is up on the hill, among the standing stones.)  
  
The runt did surprisingly well, all things considered – that is to say, he kept his mouth shut and his face vacant whenever possible, and twitched gently like the chopped off tentacle he was, and followed whatever it was that he had for guts, which ultimately proved that the runt was indeed more like his All-knowing father on the inside than he was like his human mother on the outside… not that he ever cared about proving anything to anyone, except maybe to his already excessively arrogant self.  
  
(We have that in common, the runt and I.)  
  
(“Ef I ken dew it, I will dew it.”)  
  
***  
  
The runt’s Chores, however…   
  
(I try to remember how many others there were before the Whateley twins, but I cannot.)  
  
(I remember the meaning of the word ‘cruelty’.)  
  
(I remember the race of Yith and their libraries and their efforts, and I want to laugh.)  
  
(Doesn’t matter, as Wilbur Whateley liked to say.)  
  
(Doesn’t matter, not anymore.)  
  
***  
  
… anyway, the runt’s first Chore was to Crawl, which the runt did just  _fine_  – he lay low  
  
(or at least tried to, because you can only go unnoticed for so long when you are eight feet tall and a nigh mythical creature of sorts, and also the cause of small localized earthquakes and even fires from time to time; and when you are preceded by various unpleasant rumors and a couple of half-truths, you have no other choice but to shrug and play along)   
  
and made a habit out of ‘picking of the lock’ to Yog-Sothoth’s prison with the broken Key.  
  
(A mangled spell summons mangled demons.)   
  
And every time the runt ‘picked the lock’, he allowed Yog-Sothoth to reenter the universe from which it was banished, if only for a moment; and every time Yog-Sothoth poked its ugly head in, the cracks   
  
(wounds)   
  
that marred the universe were broken open once more  
  
(not allowed to heal)  
  
and every time a new ‘pawn’ would be dragged in from another universe. And since Chaos is Order and I am Chaos and I had dragged in an Outsider and also let her run free… there was a Precedent.  
  
This, as I found out quickly, had a double purpose: the regular addition of new ‘pawns’ kept the universe unstable, while the ‘pawns’ themselves were supposed to distract anyone who might be interested in getting in the runt’s way – that is, anyone who does not want to have their small crumb of a planet Emptied.   
  
(The books were especially distracting.)  
  
Some of the ‘pawns’ even had to – and actually did – aid the runt; the irony is that the most helpful ones were ‘natives’ – Waite and West and Curwen, and the Dreamer Randolph Carter and the ghoul Pickman as well.   
  
(Speaking of which, I shall have to pay a visit to Randolph Carter soon, before he comes to the conclusion that his birth world’s fate was inevitable.)  
  
The Outsider was very  _useful_  in that regard, since her own ‘native’ universe is quite compatible with this one.  
  
(My own gross mistake… I wonder where she is now.)  
  
Her presence allowed for a wide variety of multifunctional ‘pawns’ to be uprooted from there and placed here, up to and including an entire planet, which was quickly mutilated into a ‘gift’ for the recently enslaved Yaddithians.  
  
(I made a bet with one of the Court’s flutists – how long before the so-called New Yaddith gets abandoned, and why.)  
  
(I am ‘guessing’ that the Shan will be involved in some way.)  
  
Another useful ‘pawn’ was the half-human brat of a certain godly pest from the Dreamlands… not that the runt cared much about her role in his father’s plans. Or rather, he did, but he was a lot more interested in her pretty pretty eyes.   
  
(And by a lot, I mean just enough, because pretty eyes can easily be closed forever and what is the point of caring, then?)  
  
She was quite compatible with this universe and with several others, her presence helped add a bunch of miscellaneous ‘pawns’ to the mess... She left them all behind, and just in time too – she left them and did not come back, because there was nothing to come back to, once the small crumb of a planet was Empty. Her godly pest of a father took her in, the poor child, and now she is with her siblings…  
  
***  
  
… anyway, the runt’s second Chore was to Walk, which the runt did quite gracefully  
  
(well, he did fall off a Byakhee’s back once, and managed to trip over his own tail-mouth twice, but I have been told that he managed to endear himself to various beings, including some cats)   
  
and his natural curiosity served him well, to the point of making me wonder whether it really was something as innocent as natural curiosity at work and not, say, suppressed memories that found their way out through the haze of flesh.  
  
Only a fool would believe that the runt just  _happened_  to stumble upon the proper Key for the Gate.   
  
And speaking of which, why Yuggoth? There was a copy of the Key on Celaeno as well, just three walls and two corners away from where the runt stopped reading. He must have known, somehow, that the circumstances on Yuggoth would be much more suitable for his purposes, what with the foolish priest and the wretched stone and the temple’s relative isolation  
  
(in short, the perfect conditions for those nosy, noisy, noxious Old Ones, because that is what they crave, that is what they have always craved – death and destruction and silence and space for their bloated egos )  
  
and just in time for the runt’s reintroduction to the Places almost as Empty on the edge of the Void, where he and his twin brother used to reside back when they were One, where his brethren could whisper in his ear and tug at his feet and show him the way to the only substance in this part of the universe capable of resurrecting his twin…  
  
(The temples on Yuggoth are badly damaged, and so are the people. I am familiar with their coping mechanisms, so I fully expected to hear certain individuals suggest that they put more emphasis on the worship of the Beyond-One.)  
  
(The Beyond-One is Yog-Sothoth. Obviously.)  
  
(I suggested that  _certain individuals_  be fed to Cxaxukluth, or at least banished to the Ghooric zone.)  
  
(My suggestion was interpreted as an order. Obviously.)  
  
***  
  
… anyway, the runt’s third Chore was to Bleed, which the runt did with pleasure, I’m sure  
  
(it was quite clear that he could not wait to die and be gone and be done with all this)  
  
and the runt bled, and the runt sang, and the runt resurrected his twin brother   
  
(with his own blood and a scrap of eternal life, with cold air and dry soil and starved hopes)  
  
and they were together again, and the bleeding Key and the bloodied Gate became One  
  
(an Old One)   
  
(an Ancient One)   
  
(Yog-Sothoth manifested)  
  
and the Key was finally turned and the Gate was finally opened…  
  
***  
  
(… here’s a spark and there’s a splash…)  
  
(… inside the dark, under the ash…)  
  
(… and now there’s nothing, nowhere, never…)  
  
(… no gods, no hopes, no dreams forever…)  
  
(… destiny manifests at last oh conqueror of dust…)  
  
***  
  
… and now that small crumb of a planet is a Place almost as Empty as the shadows and the deserts between the two Realms, on the rim of the Void.  
  
… and now that small crumb of a planet mocks the Existence, and the Old Ones mock the Court, and Yog-Sothoth mocks the God.  
  
… and now the cracks are closed and the wounds are healed and the scars are just another part of the whole.  
  
… and it was all rather fascinating to watch, so I am glad I did not intervene.  
  
I am going to continue watching. I would like to count how many planets Yog-Sothoth will manage to Empty before Azathoth notices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest-starring the Crawling Chaos itself, the fabulous Nyarlathotep. :*sarcastic applause*
> 
> In which I sum up my TDH headcanons, my personal Cthulhu Mythos creation myth (shuddup, I'm proud of it), TLAB, WWRT and even The Despicable Diaries... as seen and understood by good ol' Nyarly (who btw was meant to appear much, much earlier, but I was afraid he was gonna eat Wilbur alive).
> 
> Also, I really can't stress this enough. This chapter is told from Nyarlathotep's POV. Nyarlathotep. Do consider the implications of that.
> 
> ***
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this journey at least half as much as Wilbur did, and remember: happy endings don't exist. :D


End file.
